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\AM3ster  Family  Library  of  VeteririBfy  Mecliom 

Cummings  School  of  Veterinary  Medioine  at 

Tufts  University 

200  Westtx>ro  Road 

North  Qraflon,  MA  01»l 


HOOF  BEATS 


PHILIP  HIGHBORN 


RICHARD  G.  BADGER 

THE    GORHAM    PRESS 
BOSTON 


Copyright  1912  by  Richard  G.  Badger 
All  Rights  Reserved 


The  stories  and  illustrations  in  this  volume  are  used  through 
the  courteous  permission  of  the  Metropolitan  Maga- 
zine, Munsey's  Magazine,  Pearson's  Magazine  and 
The  New  York  Herald 


The  Oorham  Press,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


To  my  Mother 


CONTENTS 

1  The  Marquis 11 

2  Cleopatra 28 

3  Hammersley's  Pluck 48 

4  The  Brook 57 

5  The  Bishop  of  Barchester 84 

6  Mr.  LeflBngton  Feels  Inspired 98 

7  When  the  Marquis  Came  Into  His  Own..    115 

8  Brutus:  Cow  Pony 132 

9  "Those  Who  Ride  Straight" 148 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FRONTISPIECE 

In  the  end  he  came  quietly  up  and  put  his 
nose  into  Fullerton's  outstretched  hand 

FACING   PAGE 

"He'll  never  gallop  again,"  he  said  slowly.. .     12 


The   Marquis    would   sometimes   completely 

ignore  him 14 

"Marquis,"  he  said,  "we  sho'ly  has  both  see 

our  day," 18 

Cleopatra  was  galloping  as  only  a  thorough- 
bred can 44 

"Here's  the  brush,"  I  said  in  my  best  manner.     46 

"The    Colonel   was   spluttering  and   gasping 

for  breath" 88 

"Then  'e  grabs  me  by  the  seat  of  the  breeches 

and  shakes  me  like  a  dog  " 90 


({ » 


E  skims  the  top  of  the  brush  without  an 
inch  to  spare  " 94 

'E  just  roars  with  indecent  delight  and  brays 
until  I  thought  I'd  kill  him  " 96 


HOOF  BEATS 


THE  MARQUIS 

WHEN  the  Marquis  was  sixteen, 
they  "bhstered"  him,  "fired" 
him,  and  then  turned  him  out. 
He  was  dead  lame  in  his  off  fore- 
leg; he  would  never  gallop  again,  they  said,  but 
that  is  not  the  end  of  the  Marquis's  life-story, 
on  the  contrary,  the  crowning  triumph  of  the 
Marquis's  existence  was  yet  to  come. 

Fullerton,  whose  horse  he  was,  did  not  remeni- 
ber  exactly  why  he  had  called  him  the  Marquis, 
he  said,  unless  it  was  because  as  a  colt  his  arrogant 
pride  and  his  courage  suggested  that  of  the  old 
French  aristocrats  when  they  walked,  smiling,  to 
the  guillotine.  Fullerton  had  said  at  the  time  that 
if  the  Marquis  ever  broke  his  leg  and  had  to  be  shot 
he  would  limp  out  into  the  paddock,  with  his  head 
up,  his  nostrils  dilated  in  that  slightly  contemp- 
tuous air  he  always  wore  (for  the  Marquis  was 
descended  from  "Torchlights"  on  the  male  side), 
and  would  take  his  medicine  like  a  gentleman  and 
a  sportsman.  On  his  mother's  side,  there  was 
good  standard-bred  stock,  bourgeois  perhaps,  but 
honest  straight  through — and  if  the  Marquis  got 
11 


Hoof  Beats 

his  small  ears  and  snake-like  head  and  neck  from 
his  father,he  got  an  extraordinary  breadth  of  bone, 
a  pair  of  quarters  that  couldn't  be  matched  in 
Virginia,  and  some  good  hard  common  sense  from 
his  mother. 

But  the  Marquis  was  sixteen  years  of  age  and 
he  had  been  blistered,  fired  and  turned  out  to  pas- 
ture, which  made  the  Marquis  feel  a  good  deal  as 
it  would  an  old  veteran,  who  was  being  pensioned 
off  at  a  soldier's  home.  The  court  that  passed 
sentence  on  him  consisted  of  FuUerton  himself, 
which  in  itself  was  diflBcult  for  the  Marquis  to 
overlook,  and  Taylor  the  best  *'vet"  in  the  South . 
The  latter,  squatting  on  his  heels  by  the  Mar- 
quis's foreleg,  ran  his  hand  carefully  and  skillfully 
over  the  tendon,  then  looked  up  at  Fullerton  and 
shook  his  head. 

"He'll  never  gallop  again,"  he  said  slowly; 
"he's  been  a  great  horse — but  never  again." 

For  a  moment  Fullerton  looked  away,  out  over 
the  broad  sweeping  stretches  of  green  fields  and 
fences — big  fences  they  were,  too,  and  stone  walls 
with  a  rail  or  two  laid  across,  that  made  a  horse 
pick  up  his  feet  well  under  him  and  do  his  level 
best  each  time — and  Fullerton  was  afraid  to  look 
back  again  at  the  Marquis,  who  was  playfully 
nipping  his  arm  with  the  special  privilege  of  old 
friendship.  So  Fullerton  strode  off  to  the  house 
without  a  word,  and  called  for  old  black  Ephram. 
12 


The  Marquis 

"Put  the  Marquis  in  the  Spring  Run  pasture," 
he  said  more  sharply  to  the  old  man  than  he  had 
ever  spoken  before.  "He's  done  for,"  he  added 
over  his  shoulder,  as  he  went  up  the  steps  into  the 
house.  But  the  Marquis  was  not  only  hurt,  but 
angry,  and  while  it  was  comparatively  easy  for 
Ephram  to  lead  the  Marquis  to  the  pasture — the 
latter  being  willing,  of  course — it  was  quite  a 
different  matter  to  keep  him  there,  as  will  be  readi- 
ly seen  later  on.  Fullerton  did  not  depend  entire- 
ly upon  his  trades  for  fodder  for  his  horses  or  meat 
for  himself,  and  so  the  "Spring  Run"  pasture,  in 
which  the  Marquis  found  himself,  was  surrounded 
by  a  five-foot-six,  white-washed  board  fence,  that 
so  far  had  effectually  imprisoned  any  of  the  young 
horses  usually  turned  out  there.  And,  moreover, 
everyone  in  the  neighborhood,  even  the  most 
reckless  ones,  with  the  exception  of  one  or  two,  in 
their  cups,  had  passed  the  pasture  fence  by,  and 
one  of  these — said  old  Ephram,  who  saw  it — it 
threw  half-way  across  the  field,  when  his  horse 
got  too  close  under  it  as  he  jumped,  and  turned 
completely  over.  The  other  horse,  Ephram  told 
Fullerton  "lep"  it  rather  prettily,  but  his  rider 
being  somewhat  cooler  once  over  and  more  pru- 
dent, swore  that  he  would  stay  there  all  night  and 
be  d — ,  before  he  would  ride  out  of  Spring  Run 
pasture  that  night  or  any  other.     And  it  is  true 

13 


Hoof  Beats 

tkat  the  jump  out  is  peculiarly  nasty,  being  soft 
from  where  the  brook  overflows  after  a  rain,  and 
down-hill  with  a  two-foot  drop  for  a  landing. 

The  Marquis  seemed  rather  depressed  those 
early  fall  days,  and  would  stand  in  the  corner  of 
the  fence,  rubbing  the  side  of  his  neck  now  and 
then,  or  gnawing  off  the  top  of  the  rail  and  if  no 
one  was  there  and  the  old  brood  mare  in  the  next 
field  with  her  silly  stiff-legged  foal  was  looking  the 
other  way,  he  would  pick  up  the  off  foreleg  that 
pained  him  and  trembled  a  little.  Then  he  would 
hold  it  a  few  inches  off  the  ground,  four  or  five 
minutes  at  a  time,  though,  of  course,  the  Marquis 
really  never  admitted  even  to  himself  that  there 
was  anything  the  matter,  and  pretended  to  believe 
that  FuUerton  was  an  ingrate,  and  Taylor  the 
"vet"  an  unconscionable,  crooked  quack. 

It  had  been  warm  during  nearly  all  of  October, 
and  the  grass  and  the  trees  as  green  as  they  had 
been  the  spring  before,  but  as  October  passed  and 
November  drew  near,  there  came  a  chill  into  the 
nights  and  the  Marquis  had  begun  to  notice  it— 
the  fresh  crispness  in  the  air,  and  the  smell  of  the 
early  fall.  He  noticed  the  changed  appearance  of 
the  trees,  the  sudden  splashes  of  red  and  gold  on 
the  distant  hills,  and,  whenever  he  got  to  thinking, 
standing  there  hock  deep  in  a  carpet  of  crisp,  dried 
leaves,  in  the  little  gully  beneath  the  old  oak  tree 
14 


THE  MARQUIS   WOULD  SOMETIMES   COMPLETELY   IGNOBE   HIM 


The  Marquis 

near  the  spring,  he  kicked  himself  into  a  temper. 
FuUerton  occasionally  came  down  there  to  lean 
on  the  fence  and  have  a  chat  with  the  Marquis, 
but  the  Marquis  was  beginning  to  be  much  less 
hurt,  and  a  great  deal  more  angry — for  he  could 
stand  quite  a  long  time  now  on  that  condemned 
foreleg  without  pain — and  Fullerton  often  had  his 
trouble  for  nothing,  since  the  Marquis  sometimes 
would  completely  ignore  him  and  go  to  the  oppo- 
site end  of  the  pasture  with  as  much  sang  froid  as 
you  please.  The  Marquis,  you  must  remember 
always,  was  born  and  bred  a  Torchlight,  and 
besides  was  half-brother  to  Prince  Royal  who, 
as  everyone  knows,  won  the  English  Derby  in 
189-. 

Then  early  one  morning,  quite  far  in  the  dis- 
tance, he  heard  a  familiar  sound,  and  a  little  later 
saw  Fullerton  ride  down  the  driveway  on  his 
latest  three-year-old — a  likely  youngster,  the 
Marquis  had  to  admit — though  the  blood  surged 
into  his  head  and  he  kicked  at  the  fence  for  an 
hour,  off  and  on,when  he  thought  that  probably 
now  this  flea-bitten  beast, with  the  long  ewe  neck, 
would  take  his  place,  and  then  with  Fullerton  up 
would  show  the  county  the  way  'cross  country, 
when  hounds  were  in  full  cry  The  familiar 
sound  the  Marquis  heard  was  the  ta-ta-ta-a-a  of 
the  master's  horn,  and  it  came  softly  and  clearly 
15 


"Boof  Beats 

from  over  the  hills  far  away,  to  a  pair  of  small, 
shapely,  pointed  ears,  cocked  attentively  forward. 
The  Marquis  listened  a  moment,  then  threw  up 
his  head  with  a  snort,  and  with  his  tail  held 
straight  out,  went  trotting  across  the  field,  lifting 
his  feet  high  and  whinnying.  His  off  foreleg  was 
as  good  as  the  near  one  now.  He  had  known  all 
along  it  amounted  to  nothing.  The  Torchlights 
were  a  little  wild,  perhaps,  in  their  youth — one 
might  even  be  killed  now  and  then — but  they  died 
"sound,"  with  their  boots  on  as  it  were,  not  with 
bowed  tendons  or  splints  or  curbs,  but  game  and 
fighting  to  their  glorious  sporting  end.  So  the 
Marquis  made  a  swift  circle  of  the  pasture  until 
he  reached  the  upper  end  again,  then  he  stood,  his 
shoulders  against  the  fence,  his  head  stretched 
far  out  and  trembling.  With  a  sudden  inspiration 
up  went  his  sleek  fine-bred  head  in  the  air  with  a 
squeal,  and  he  wheeled  directly  about,  galloped 
back  a  dozen  yards,  then  dug  his  hind  hoofs  into 
the  soft  soil.  His  back  roached,  his  quarters 
swelled  with  muscles,  and  with  three  long  strides 
he  reached  the  fence,  another,  and  he  rose  into 
the  air,  seemed  to  hang  for  a  fleeting  instant  upon 
the  top  rail,  his  two  unshod  hind  hoofs  just  mak- 
ing a  light  rat-tat  as  they  hovered,  then  his  fore- 
legs shot  out  straight  and  he  dropped  down  the 
steep  descent  on  the  far  side.  Off  he  went,  racing 
16 


The  Marquis 

down  over  the  open  meadow-land,  and  the  Mar- 
quis had  proved  the  "vet"  was  wrong.  The 
tendon  had  been  cruelly  tested  and  had  not  been 
found  w^anting  at  the  crucial  moment.  But  the 
Marquis  stopped  at  the  top  of  the  next  hill;  he 
heard  no  longer  the  sound  of  the  horn,  for  he  was 
to  windward  of  it  now  and  could  neither  hear  nor 
scent  the  direction. 

That  evening  when  Fullerton  rode  home, 
covered  with  mud  and  happy,  he  saw  the  Marquis 
as  usual  in  the  Spring  Run  pasture,  but  when  he 
called  gaily  to  him,  the  Marquis  did  not  stop  nib- 
bling at  a  particularly  delicious  tuft  of  grass, 
which  he  pretended  to  have  discovered,  but 
treated  Fullerton  with  all  the  aristocratic  scorn 
which  it  is  possible  for  one  with  such  antecedents 
as  the  Marquis  to  put  into  a  single  snub.  Fuller- 
ton  seemed  rather  inclined  to  treat  the  matter 
lightly — he  had  had  a  good  day's  hunting,  and 
they  had  "killed"  over  there,  near  the  mill  on  the 
Harris  place;  so  he  chuckled  audibly  at  the  superb, 
studied  indifference  of  the  Marquis,  and  called 
him  old  "bowed  tendon."  When  Fullerton  had 
gone  the  Marquis  stopped  nibbling,  sniffed  dis- 
gustedly and  swished  his  tail  in  a  burst  of  pent-up 
anger.  The  Torchlights  all  had  very  bad  tempers 
when  aroused,  but  it  was  usually  soon  over,  and 
the  Marquis  was  truly  devoted  to  Fullerton. 
17 


Hoof  Beats 

"We'll  see,"  he  thought,  and  bared  his  teeth, 
which  had  grown  long  and  showed  his  age  quite 
plainly.  "We'll  see  about  that  bowed  tendon,  and 
you  needn't  laugh  so  heartily  yourself,  for  your 
seat  isn't  what  it  used  to  be,  nor  your  hands  so 
light  as  they  were  when  I  was  a  likely  three-year- 
old,  and  your  knees  used  to  shut  on  the  saddle 
like  the  teeth  of  a  steel  trap,  and  the  feel  of  the 
bit  in  my  mouth  was  as  gentle  and  confident  as — " 
but  the  Marquis  was  no  longer  angry  and  was 
thinking  of  old  times,  though  he  meant  to  get 
even  just  the  same.  The  Torchlights  had  never 
let  a  slight  like  that  pass,  and  the  Marquis  was 
one  of  the  best. 

That  evening  when  old  Ephram  went  down  to 
the  paddock  to  take  up  the  Marquis  for  the  night, 
the  latter  pretended  to  be  more  sore  than  ever  in 
his  off  foreleg,  and  limped  worse  than  Ephram, 
himself  crippled  with  rheumatism  in  the  knees,  so 
that  finally  the  old  man  stopped  for  a  moment  in 
the  road  to  rest  him. 

"Marquis,"  he  said,  "we  sho'ly  has  see  our  day," 
then  went  on  again  shaking  his  head  and  mutter- 
ing, but  the  Marquis  only  bit  him  smartly  on  the 
shoulder  for  reply,  and  received  a  whack  from 
Ephram 's  stick  in  return. 

All  the  following  morning  the  Marquis  watched 
FuUerton,  in  the  adjoining  pasture,  schooling 
18 


The  Marquis 

and  showing  his  youngsters  over  a  couple  of  made 
jumps,  to  the  stranger  from  the  city,  who  had 
come  down  into  Virginia  to  buy,  and  didn't  care  a 
rap  for  the  price,  if  he  could  find  what  he  wanted : 
"A  horse  that  could  carry  his  weight  (he  rode  at 
a  hundred  and  eighty), that  could  gallop,  and  jump 
the  side  of  a  house  if  need  be,"  was  the  way  the 
stranger,  whose  name  was  Williams,  expressed  it. 
The  next  day  was  a  hunting  appointment,  and 
Fullerton  was  giving  Williams  his  choice.  Wil- 
liams stood  looking  on  indifferently;  he  had  been 
searching  for  what  he  wanted  for  a  month,  and 
he  knew  a  good  horse  when  he  saw  one.  At  last 
he  called  to  Fullerton. 

**That  last  one,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  short- 
coupled,  thoroughbred  brown  gelding,  "looks  as 
if  he  had  some  bottom  and  might  possibly  stand 
up  under  my  weight.  I'll  hunt  him  to-morrow, 
what  do  you  say.'^"  Fullerton  nodded.  The 
Marquis  looked  away  in  disgust.  He  had  known 
that  brown  gelding  from  a  foal,  and  he  never  had 
shown  any  nerve,  though  he  might  possibly  look 
well  to  a  plow. 

The  men  passed  quite  near  the  Spring  Run  pas- 
ture on  their  way  back  to  the  house,  and  Williams 
stopped  for  a  moment,  leaning,  arms  on  the  gate. 
**See  here,  Fullerton,  you  didn't  show  me  that 
one,"  he  exclaimed,  **now  that's  what  I  call  a 
10 


Hoof  Beats 

horse — bone,  power  and  courage.  Just  look  at 
his  eye.  I'll  bet  you  anything  you  like  he  could 
carry  my  weight."  But  FuUerton  only  laughed 
and  shook  his  head. 

"He  could  have  once,  I  dare  say.  In  his  day 
he  couldn't  be  beat  over  big  or  trappy  country; 
he's  one  of  Torchlight's  sons  and  a  half-brother  to 
Prince  Royal,  you  know;  but  he's  sixteen  years  old 
and  has  bowed  a  tendon  badly.  He  can't  take  a 
step;  he's  dead  lame." 

And  the  Marquis  gritted  his  teeth  maliciously 
and  took  several  steps,  dead  lame.  He  had  sud- 
denly made  up  his  mind.  He  watched  the  two 
men  down  the  road  until  they  had  entirely  passed 
from  sight,  then  he  swung  lightly  about  and  quick- 
ly gathering  his  speed  popped  over  the  pasture 
fence,  and  then  back  again.  The  tendon  was  as 
good  as  ever,  and  the  fence  a  mere  bagatelle. 

The  next  morning  early  as  usual,  old  Ephram 
led  the  Marquis  down  to  the  pasture  and  sent  him 
bucking  and  kicking  into  it  with  a  hearty  slap  on 
his  quarter,  then  closed  the  gate  upon  him.  There 
was  an  air  of  suppressed  excitement  about  the 
Marquis  this  morning  and  every  now  and  then  he 
would  stand  listening,  his  ears  pointing  attentively 
forward,  first  toward  the  house  and  then  toward 
the  broad  sweeping  country  below  and  the  distant 
hills.  At  last  he  saw  approaching,  FuUerton  in 
20 


The  Marquis 

pink,  ^  riding'' his  flea-bitten  gray  and  beside  him 
Williams  on  the  thoroughbred  brown  gelding.  At 
the  same  instant  came  again  that  familiar  sound, 
which  had  become  part  of  the  Marquis's  life,  from 
somewhere  off  in  the  distance — that  single,  repeat- 
ed inspiring  note  of  the  horn — and  he  galloped 
madly  about  in  the  pasture,  stopping  first  here 
and  then  there  to  listen,  until  he  had  caught  the 
direction.  Then  he  stood  quietly  until  Fullerton 
and  Williams  had  passed.  He  watched  them  walk 
leisurely  on,  over  the  meadows  below,  opening 
a  gate  now  and  again — then  they,  too,  heard  the 
horn,  and  put  their  horses  into  a  brisk  canter 
straight  for  the  top  of  the  hill. 

The  Marquis  could  easily  follow  the  bright  pink 
of  Fullerton 's  coat  and  saw  moving  about  here  and 
there  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  beyond,  silhouetted 
against  the  gray  sky,  other  bright  spots  of  color — 
the  master  and  whips  and  a  few  of  the  field — al- 
ready assembled,  while  an  uneasy  rabble  of  brown 
and  white  leaped  about  on  the  ground.  He  waited 
until  they  had  passed  over  the  crest  of  the  hill, 
then  he  whirled  away  from  the  fence  a  few  strides, 
and  without  effort  jumped  cleanly  over.  Now  he 
listened  again  for  a  moment,  head  erect  and  body 
trembling  with  excitement.  All  was  silence. 
Then  down  the  wind  came  a  faint  sound — hardly 
distinguishable  at  first  except  to  the  veteran  ear — 
21 


Hoof  Beats 

the  low,  undecided  cries  of  a  few  hounds  suddenly 
come  upon  the  scent,  then  all  at  once  a  deep 
resonant  throaty  bay  from  twenty  couples  of 
frenzied  hounds  that  split  the  morning  quietness 
and  waked  the  countryside  for  a  mile  around. 

The  Marquis  did  not  hesitate  now,  but  bounded 
forward,  down  across  the  broad  meadow-land, 
his  long,  free,  thoroughbred  manner  of  going, 
which  he  got  from  the  Torchlight  side,  carrying 
him  gracefully,  fast  as  the  eye  could  follow. 
Gates  he  took  in  his  stride  without  slacking  speed ; 
now  he  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  and  went  spring- 
ing down  the  other  side,  his  legs  moving  under  him 
like  the  pistons  of  a  finely  turned  machine.  He 
had  seen  them  there  below  him — the  pack  some- 
what straggling  now,  a  few  taking  the  lead,  but 
all  in  full  cry — and  following  closely  after,  a  dozen 
men  or  so  riding,  as  the  Marquis  would  have 
expressed  it,  "Hell  for  leather."  Banging  down 
the  hill  he  went  after  them,  never  checking  his 
speed  except  at  a  stone  wall  perhaps,  where,  for  a 
moment,  he  gathered  his  strength  beneath  him, 
before  he  cleared  it  swiftly  and  landed  running  on 
the  other  side,  well  in  hand. 

A  few  minutes  more  and  he  had  passed  Williams 
on  the  brown  gelding,  and  ahead  of  him,  he  could 
see,  scattered  over  the  field,  Fullerton,  urging  his 
flea-bitten  gray,  and  perhaps  a  dozen  others.    The 


The  Marquis 

Marquis  had  galloped  a  hundred  yards  past 
Williams  before  anyone  noticed  him  at  all,  then  he 
heard  one  man  near  him  shouting,  "  'Ware  horse; 
someone's  down — but  he  hasn't  a  stitch  of 
leather!"  The  Marquis  increased  his  pace  and 
followed  Fullerton  so  closely  over  a  stiffish 
post  and  rail  that  the  latter  turned  in  his 
saddle  and  swore,  but  the  words  remained 
half  said;  his  lower  jaw  hung  open,  and 
his  eyes  were  round  with  wonder.  The  Marquis 
was  galloping  beside  him,  head  out-stretched  and 
eyes  bright,  half  a  dozen  yards  away  without  even 
deigning  a  look;  he  meant  to  give  Fullerton  the 
ride  of  his  life,  something  to  talk  about  for  years 
to  come,  and  to  make  him  moan  in  his  sleep. 

"Where'd  that  horse  come  from,  Fullerton?" 
the  master  yelled  back  over  his  shoulder.  "Isn't 
that  your  old  cripple;  it  looks  like  the  Marquis 
to  me." 

But  Fullerton  only  swallowed  hard  and  blinked 
his  astonished  eyes  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way  as  if 
he  had  suddenly  seen  a  ghost. 

Williams  had  recognized  the  Marquis  too,  and 
was  spurring  on  the  brown  gelding.  "See  here, 
Fullerton,"  he  called,  "isn't  that  your  old  chest- 
nut? I  thought  you  said  he  was — "  but  Fullerton 
only  shook  his  head  hopelessly  and  gesticulated 
in  the  air. 


Hooj  Beats 

They  were  riding  hard,  for  the  scent  was  breast 
high  and  the  music  of  the  hounds  was  continuous 
and  beautiful  to  hear.  A  big  stone  wall  lay  before 
them,  but  the  Marquis  remembered  it  was  there 
long  before  anyone  else  did.  He  saw  the  master 
settle  down  in  his  saddle,  steady  his  horse  a  bit, 
then  shake  him  up  sharply  with  a  dig  of  his  long 
hunting  spurs.  The  Master  was  safely  over  and 
away,  when  FuUerton  cut  loose  the  flea-bitten  gray 
who  always  rushed  his  jumps,  and  was  bucking 
and  fighting  to  follow — but  the  Marquis  was  off 
before  and  crossed  them  on  the  way.  It  was  un- 
sportsmanlike he  knew,  he  had  never  tolerated  it 
himself  from  another,  but  everything  was  fair 
today.  He  jumped  it  neatly,  just  resting  his  hind 
hoofs  for  an  instant  on  the  rail  on  the  top  of  the 
wall,  but  the  flea-bitten  gray  had  swerved  and 
refused  when  the  Marquis  balked  him  and  nearly 
put  FuUerton  off,  so  that  the  latter  finally  had  to 
be  given  a  lead  over  by  the  next  man  that  came 
along.  The  gray  had  soured  and  was  acting  in  a 
peculiarly  nasty  manner,  but  what  seemed  worse 
to  FuUerton  was  the  way  the  others  laughed. 

The  pace  was  a  hot  one — they  had  not  checked 
for  an  instant — and  the  fox  was  in  plain  sight 
most  of  the  time,  running  hard,  pressed  by  the 
foremost  hounds.  The  Marquis  was  riding  the 
Master  close,  and  the  latter  was  yelling  himself 


The  Marquis 

hoarse,waving  his  crop,  and  trying  to  keep  him  off, 
but  this  was  the  Marquis's  day,  and  he  hung  the 
Master  up  at  the  "in  and  out"  at  Blindman's 
Lane,  and  left  him  swearing  with  rage  while  some- 
one opened  a  gate,  before  they  lost  the  hounds 
completely.  The  fox  was  doubling  back  now  and 
Fullerton  on  the  gray  with  Williams  close  behind 
him  had  caught  up  again  with  the  first  flight  and 
the  Marquis  now  in  the  lead.  They  came  hammer- 
ing down  altogether,  a  steep  plowed  field  on  the 
side  of  a  hill,  at  a  four-foot  draw-bar  and  ditch  at 
the  bottom,  and  the  Marquis  led  the  best  man  over 
by  a  dozen  lengths  or  more.  He  judged  it,  with 
the  experience  of  many  years,  to  exactly  the  proper 
instant,  rose  in  the  air,  clearing  the  fence  by  the 
eighth  of  an  inch,  just  leaving  the  marks  of  his 
hoofs  on  the  farthermost  side  of  the  ditch.  He 
looked  back  as  he  galloped,  to  watch  the  gray 
take  it — a  wild  flying  leap  in  the  air,  with  no 
proper  finish  at  all ;  and  then  came  the  brown  geld- 
ing, with  no  courage  to  try  it,  but  forced  under 
whip  and  spur.  He  took  it  crazily,  side-wise, 
and  landed  hind  legs  in  the  ditch,  then  scrambled 
out  frightened  half  out  of  his  wits.  At  the  next 
fence  the  Marquis  increased  his  speed  and  rode 
Fullerton  off,  and  left  him  swearing  and  shaking 
his  fist,  while  Williams,  who  had  seen  it  all,  rocked 
in  his  saddle  with  mirth. 
25 


HooJ  Beats 

"What'U  you  take  for  the  Marquis?"  he  cried, 
but  FuUerton  only  beat  the  air  with  his  arms  and 
made  uninteUigible  sounds.  It  was  all  clear  open 
country  now  before  them,  broad  and  rolling,  with 
only  a  patch  of  woods  here  and  there.  The  pack 
made  the  most  of  it  and  with  a  final  spurt  for  the 
next  half  mile  near  Blindman's  Lane,  a  little  above 
where  they  had  crossed  it  before,  they  chopped 
their  quarry  in  the  open,  when  only  the  Marquis 
was  there. 

Afterward  both  Fullerton  and  Williams  rode 
home  past  the  Spring  Run  pasture,  and  found  the 
old  Marquis  there  chewing  a  mouthful  of  cool  mud. 
Both  men  got  off  and  tied  their  horses  outside  and 
went  in  through  the  pasture  gate,  and  Fullerton 
called  to  the  Marquis  to  come.  Then  the  Mar- 
quis made  a  circle  of  the  pasture,  proudly,  disdain- 
fully, but  in  the  end  he  came  quietly  up  and  put 
his  nose  into  FuUerton's  outstretched  hand. 

"I'll  give  you  a  thousand  dollars  ;or  him," 
said  Williams.  "I  don't  care  if  he's  forty  years  old. 
He  can  jump  the  side  of  a  house!"  But  Fullerton 
only  laughed. 

"Two  thousand,"  said  Williams  quickly  without 
a  moment's  hesitation,  and  glanced  at  the  spot  on 
the  Marquis's  foreleg,  where  the  firing  had  burned 
the^hair  off  and  left  it  bare.  But  to  FuUerton's 
everlasting  credit,  let  it  be  said,  for  he  had  been 


The  Marquis 

sorely  tried  that  day,  he  replied  quite  firmly  that 
the  Marquis  was  not  for  sale,  and  taking  WiUiams 
by  the  arm,  led  him  off  to  the  house. 

The  Marquis  watched  them  until  they  were  out 
of  sight,  then  he  galloped  the  length  of  the  pasture, 
squealed,  and  rolled  over  five  times,  sprang  up, 
shook  himself,  and  stood  still,  his  head  resting  on 
the  gate,  waiting  for  old  Ephram. 


27 


CLEOPATRA 

RAWDON  MERRYWEATHER  is 
one  of  those  men  that  horses,  dogs, 
and  children  are  always  making  a  fuss 
over.  The  one  are  continually  lick- 
ing his  hands  or  the  other  sitting  in  his  lap  from 
morning  until  night  so  that  if  one  knows  Merry- 
weather  as  well  as  I  do,  there  is  nothing  surprising 
in  coming  suddenly  upon  him,  as  I  often  have, 
sitting  in  the  chair  before  the  fire,  with  Gypsy 
Maid  and  her  latest  litter  of  eight  tiny  fox  hounds 
yelping  nearby,  and  reading  aloud  to  somebody  or 
other's  brood  of  six  children,  draped  all  over  him 
like  presents  on  a  Christmas  tree.  But  the  grown- 
ups like  him,  too.  The  men  worship  him,  and 
their  wives  assume  a  motherly  attitude  and  affect 
to  regard  him  as  a  brand  to  be  plucked  from  the 
burning. 

Merryweather  is  tall,  over  six  feet,  with  rather 
stooping,  remarkably  broad  shoulders  and  long, 
thin  riding  legs,  slightly  bowed  from  years  spent 
in  the  saddle.  He  has  a  keen,  aquiline  face,  his 
skin  w^eather-beaten  to  a  red  bronze  and  as  tough 

S8 


Cleopatra 

as  leather.  It  is  well  known  that  he  has  only  two 
suits  of  clothes — a  pair  of  riding  breeches  and  a 
coat,  the  cut  of  which  is  the  envy  of  the  county, 
and  evening  clothes.  And  it  must  often  happen 
that  when  he  takes  one  off,  he  puts  the  other  on, 
since  he  is  in  the  saddle  all  day,  and  no  one  ever 
stays  up  late  enough  to  see  him  go  to  bed,  or  gets 
up  early  enough  to  find  him  still  asleep. 

But  what  Merryweather  lacks  in  the  way  of  a 
trousseau,  he  makes  up  in  horseflesh;  for  in  his 
stable  is  a  row  of  six  stalls,  correctly  appointed 
overhead  with  plaited  straw  and  ribbon,  and  in 
them  stand  six  well-groomed  blanketed  hunters, 
beginning  at  the  left  with  the  little  thoroughbred 
mare,  Cleopatra,  and  ending  on  the  right  with  the 
big  sixteen-hand  chestnut  steeple-chaser  Assur- 
ance, a  half-brother  to  Fire-Alarm,  that  sensa- 
tional jumper  which  had  such  great  success  in 
England  two  years  ago. 

When  Merryweather  and  I  graduated,  he 
bought  a  small  farm,  several  good  horses,  and  took 
up  fox-hunting  where  he  left  off  before  he  went  to 
college;  while  I,  on  the  contrary,  studied  law, 
married,  and  after  a  number  of  years  of  hard  work 
acquired  a  small  practice  which  begins  at  last  to 
pay.  The  point  I  wish  to  make  clear  is,  that 
Merryweather,  when  he  asked  me  to  visit  him  for 
fox-hunting,  was  as  hard  and  strong  as  a  ten-pen- 
29 


Hoof  Beats 

ny  nail,  while  I  was  as  soft  and  flabby  as  could  be 
after  years  of  desk  work  and  quick  lunches. 

Rawdon  wrote  me  that  the  hunting  was  fine 
this  fall;  and  as  he  had  not  seen  me  for  a  year,  he 
wished  that  I  would  come  up  some  Friday,  spend 
Saturday  and  Sunday,  and  go  out  with  the  Pick- 
erel Hounds.  Why  they  were  called  Pickerel 
Hounds  no  one  knows,  not  even  Rawdon,  who  is 
the  moving  spirit  in  the  county;  but  Pickerel 
Hounds,  I  assure  you,  can  run  as  fast  and  give 
as  much  tongue  as  any  other,  so  that  if  they  know 
they  are  called  Pickerel  it  does  not  seem  to  depress 
them  in  the  least. 

I  had  not  been  very  well  of  late,  and  so  Raw- 
don's  invitation  seemed  the  very  thing,  and  I  went. 
Priscilla,  that's  my  wife,  and  Bill,  that's  my  eldest, 
he's  six,  and  little  Marjory,  all  kissed  me;  and 
Priscilla  looked  so  worried  and  kept  saying  so  often 
"Do  be  careful,  John,"  that  the  children,  taking 
the  cue  from  her,  lisped  *'Poor  Daddy"  until  I  felt 
half  dead  already,  and  for  a  moment  thought  of 
telegraphing  Rawdon  "Too  sick  to  come;  writing," 
but  put  the  thought  away  as  unworthy  of  me. 

It  was  late  and  quite  dark  when  I  reached  Den- 
von,  and  the  little  station  seemed  to  threaten  me 
gloomily.  But  as  I  stepped  off  the  train  Rawdon 
rushed  forward  and  in  a  moment  was  cracking  my 
knuckles  together  in  his  great  hand,  in  that  enthu- 
80 


Cleopatra 

siastic  but  painful  way  he  has,  and  already  I  began 
to  feel  like  a  different  man. 

"Here,  John,"  said  he,  "give  me  your  bag  and 
I'll  chuck  it  under  the  seat,"  and  he  tossed  it 
easily  into  the  back  of  the  big  wheeled  yellow 
break-cart.  Then  he  sprang  up  into  the  cart  and 
held  up  the  robe  for  me,  until  I  had  it  tucked  in 
well  around  me.  He  picked  up  the  reins  and  laid 
the  lash  playfully  across  our  steed's  quarters. 
Afterwards,  when  the  din  had  ceased  and  I  could 
hear  what  he  was  saying,  Rawdon  told  me  the 
horse's  name  was  Cricket,  as  though  that  explained 
why  he  should  try  to  kick  the  dashboard  out  of  the 
cart  six  times  in  quick  succession  the  moment  he 
felt  the  whip.  Cricket,  Rawdon  said,  was  feeling 
good.  What  Cricket  needed,  I  thought,  was  an 
A  No.  1  attack  of  my  indigestion  and  he  would 
make  a  well-broken,  respectable  horse  that  one 
needn't  be  ashamed  of.  But  I  let  it  pass.  There 
was  no  use  being  fussy,  and,  after  all,  Rawdon 
might  really  like  Cricket;  there  is  no  accounting 
for  tastes.  Rawdon  must  have  seen  the  express- 
ion of  my  face,  or  noticed  the  way  I  held  on  to  the 
side  of  the  cart,  for  he  roared  with  laughter  in  his 
big,  hearty  way. 

"That's  nothing,"  he  said  at  last,  "wait  until 
you  see  Cleopatra  to-morrow,  when  first  she  hears 
the  hounds  or  the  horn.  She  makes  Cricket  look 
31 


Hoof  Beats 

like  tiddlywinks  compared  to  football,  but  you'll 
like  her;  she's  a  little  bundle  of  nerves  and  courage. 
I  ride  her  on  a  snaflfle,  though  she  does  take  hold 
somewhat  at  first — and  you'd  think  she  meant  to 
bolt,  but  it's  all  just  her  play,  you  know."  I 
didn't  speak  for  a  minute.  It  was  the  appro- 
priate moment  for  some  dare-devil  hon  mot,  I  knew, 
but  somehow  I  couldn't  seem  to  do  it,  and  I 
swallowed  hard  instead.  I  was  to  ride  Cleopatra. 
Rawdon  had  just  said  so;  and  Cleopatra  made 
Cricket  look  like  tiddlywinks  compared  to  football, 
was  a  bundle  of  nerves  and  courage,  and  usually 
bolted  at  first,  and  Rawdon  rode  her  on  a  snaffle 
bit.  I  tried  to  remember  where  I  had  put  my 
life-insurance  policy  and  couldn't,  but  I  hoped 
Priscilla  would  be  able  to  find  it.  At  any  rate 
the  will  made  her  executrix. 

We  were  driving  at  a  rattling  pace,  the  cart 
swaying  from  side  to  side,  the  Cricket's  iron-shod 
hoofs  banging  on  the  hard  macadam  road.  The 
lamps  on  either  side  of  the  cart,  turned  high,  cast 
a  bright  reflection  upon  the  stiff  whitewashed 
fences  at  the  sides  of  the  road,  and  the  moon,  half 
full  overhead,  shone  feebly  over  fields  beyond, 
crossed  here  and  there  in  the  distance  by  a  hedge 
or  a  fence,  as  the  case  might  be. 

"Stiff  country?"  I  hazarded,  at  last  as  debon- 
airly as  I  could. 

32 


Cleopatra 

Rawdon  smiled  at  me  fondly. 

"Good  old  sport,"  he  said  enthusiastically, 
slapping  me  on  the  back.  "Fancy  your  asking 
for  stiff  country,  after  all  these  years  out  of  the 
saddle.  Just  like  you  were  in  the  old  days; 
couldn't  get  'em  big  enough,  eh !  Stiff  country — 
well,  I  guess — there's  nothing  stiffer  this  side  of 
Ireland.  Why,  there  was  an  Englishman  out  with 
the  pack  last  week  that  said  he  had  never  seen  its 
equal,  that  every  fence  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
built  by  a  carpenter,  and  we  were  down  near 
Bremen  then.  To-morrow  we  are  going  to  hunt 
the  Midvale  country."  I  didn't  have  to  ask  Raw- 
don what  he  meant  by  that.  That  fanatical  fire, 
I  knew  so  well  of  years  ago,  was  burning  in  his 
eyes,  and  I  had  inside  information,  so  to  speak, 
that  in  the  Midvale  country  a  nice,  well-meaning, 
four-foot  post  and  rail  was  as  a  drop  of  water  in 
the  desert.  Another  quarter  of  a  mile  and  we 
turned  in  at  a  gate  and  Rawdon  sent  the  Cricket 
at  a  gallop  up  the  driveway  to  the  stable  where  two 
grooms  with  lanterns  touched  their  forelocks  in 
respectful  silence  and  fell  upon  the  Cricket  and 
the  break-cart  with  feverish  haste. 

In  the  end  stall,  Cleopatra,  rudely  awakened, 

put  her  head  up  over  the  side  of  the  stall,  rolled  a 

red  eye  at  me  wildly,  and  bit  at  the  horse  next  her, 

who  returned  the  compliment  gallantly.     Rawdon 

33 


Eoof  Beats 

laughed  and  nodded  his  head  at  me  over  his 
shoulder. 

'^That's  Cleopatra;  she'll  give  you  a  good  ride 
all  right.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  sit  tight  the 
first  couple  of  fields  and  put  her  at  the  biggest 
panels  you  see.  After  that,  if  she  doesn't  get 
away  with  you,  she  will  settle  down  and  a  lady 
could  ride  her." 

I  think  the  stable  must  have  been  warm  after 
the  drive  in  the  cold  night  air,  for  I  felt  quite  dizzy 
for  a  moment  and  took  a  swallow  of  water  out  of 
the  spigot  where  the  horses  drank.  How  much 
nicer  I  thought  it  would  be  to  have  some-one  else 
ride  Cleopatra  the  first  couple  )f  fields  over  the 
biggest  panels,  and  then  get  on  her  after  she  had 
settled  down.  I  laughingly  suggested  the  idea  to 
Rawdon,  but  I  must  have  done  the  laugh  too  well, 
for  he  took  it  as  a  joke  and  chuckled  for  several 
minutes. 

The  horse  '^  Terry  weather  meant  to  ride  was  a 
big,  fatherl;^  -^king  animal  covered  with  brown 
fur  that  made  i,im  look  about  twice  as  large  as  he 
really  was,  and  really  more  like  some  prehistoric 
animal  than  a  horse;  but  Rawdon  said  he  was  a 
splendid  jumper,  over  fifteen  years  old,  and  had 
never  been  down  in  his  life. 

I  waxed  honestly  enthusiastic  when  I  heard  this, 
and  Rawdon  seemed  pleased  and  said  he  would 
34 


Cleopatra 

have  been  glad  to  have  let  me  ride  him,  but  the 
only  other  horse  up  to  his,  Rawdon's,  weight  had 
developed  a  splint — and  besides  Cleopatra  was  a 
more  brilliant  performer.  I  knew  what  that 
meant — a  brilliant  performer.  It  meant  that 
Cleopatra,  when  she  saw  the  first  fence,  would  dig 
her  hind  hoofs  into  the  soil,  throw  up  her  head  with 
a  snort,  and  when  she  got  well  going,  about  a  mile 
a  minute,  would  take  off  anywhere  from  twenty  to 
forty  feet  in  front  of  the  fence,  and  if  you  came 
down  again  together,  everybody  turned  in  the 
saddle  and  congratulated  you,  and  thanked  heaven 
it  was  you  and  not  they.  I  had  once  ridden  a 
brilliant  performer  years  ago,  and  for  one  reason 
or  another  I  would  have  preferred  not  to  ride  any 
more  geniuses  of  the  horse  world. 

Rawdon's  house  is  a  stone's  throw  from  the 
stable,  and  as  we  stepped  upon  the  porch,  pande- 
monium broke  forth  from  within. 

"Burglars  wouldn't  have  much  chance  around 
here,  would  they,  John?"  Rawdon  said,  looking 
back  at  me  as  he  put  his  key  in  the  door. 

"Sure  they'll  know  you?"  I  jested  carelessly. 

"Oh,  they'll  know  me  all  right;  but  John,  I  want 
to  tell  you,  don't  pat  Roysterer  until  he's  got  to 
know  you  a  few  minutes.  He's  overzealous,  you 
know,  about  guarding  the  place,  and  doesn't  make 
nice  distinctions." 

35 


Hoof  Beats 

Personally  I  had  never  meant  to  pat  Roysterer 
at  all,  after  the  sound  of  his  voice,  until  I  had 
known  him  quite  a  good  deal  more  than  a  few 
minutes;  and  so  when  the  door  was  pushed  open 
and  Roysterer,  followed  by  six  couples  of  assorted 
canines,  all  sprang  upon  Rawdon  with  loving  cries, 
then  suddenly  saw  me,  I  felt  a  strange  feeling  of 
diffidence  about  accepting  Rawdon's  hospitable 
wave  of  invitation  to  enter.  Roysterer,  being  the 
largest  and  in  a  sense  the  leader  of  the  others, 
seemed  particularly  upset  and  conscious  of  his 
position,  and  stared  at  me  so  long  with  his  back 
roached  and  teeth  bared  that  I  felt  quite  imcom- 
fortable  until  Rawdon  gave  him  a  sound  kick, 
which,  being  a  kind  of  passport  for  me,  we  went  in 
without  further  annoyance.  I  felt  quite  import- 
ant for  a  while  after  that;  and  later  on  I  could  see 
that  Roysterer  really  would  have  liked  to  lick  my 
hand.  It  was  like  being  passed  through  the  fire- 
lines  by  the  chief  of  police,  after  some  surly  police- 
man had  pushed  you  in  the  shirt  front  with  a  fat, 
smoky  hand. 

It  was  already  morning  before  Rawdon  and  I 
stopped  talking;  and  the  last  thing  I  remember 
after  Rawdon  showed  me  my  room,  was  his  telling 
me  he  would  call  me  in  the  morning,  and  the  next 
thing,  just  after  I  had  gotten  the  covers  really 
tight  around  me  w^s  his  calling  me.  When  I  first 
36 


Cleopatra 

heard  someone  knocking  on  my  door  I  only  dozed 
on  happily,  but  as  I  grew  a  little  more  and  more 
awake,  something  seemed  to  weigh  upon  my  mind 
and  depress  me;  and  it  was  not  until  Rawdon 
stood  in  the  door,  crop  and  lash  in  hand,  that  I 
began  to  realize  it  was  Cleopatra.  It  was  only 
a  few  minutes  now  before  I  had  to  ride  Cleopatra. 
They  say  condemned  men,  on  the  morning  of  their 
execution,  often  eat  a  hearty  breakfast.  It  is  true ; 
I  did.     I  felt  I  should  need  it. 

The  sky  was  slightly  cloudy,  and  while  the  wind 
blew  gently  out  of  the  south,  there  was  an  early 
morning  crispness  to  it  that  put  the  horses  on 
edge;  and  as  the  grooms  led  our  mounts  up  from 
the  stable,  it  was  really  more  than  one  man  should 
have  been  asked  to  do,  to  take  Cleopatra  all  by 
himself.  Sometimes  Cleopatra  lifted  her  head, 
and  when  she  did  so  the  groom  went  with  her. 
There  was  no  effort  on  her  part.  She  was  very 
graceful  and  pretty  about  it.  She  merely  lifted 
her  head  and  the  groom  went  up  in  the  air;  then 
she  would  try  to  kick  Granny,  the  other  horse, 
with  her  heels.  We  watched  them  as  they 
approached,  Rawdon  with  pride  in  his  eyes.  As 
for  me,  I  can't  say  pride  exactly  expressed  my 
emotions;  but  then,  of  course,  they  weren't  my 
horses.     I  was  only  going  to  ride  one  of  them. 

"Feeling  pretty  good,  aren't  they'?"  said  Raw- 
37 


Hoof  Beats 

don.  "Perfectly  devilish,"  I  thought,  but  I  said 
nothing.  There  did  not  seem  to  be  any  necessity, 
the  thing  was  so  obvious.  Rawdon  kept  Cleopat- 
ra from  sitting  down  when  I  got  on  her,  while  the 
groom  swung  to  her  head,  so  that  for  the  time  be- 
ing I  felt  comparatively  safe,  and  anchored  like  a 
ship  in  harbor,  but  it  was  only  the  calm  before  the 
storm. 

'*A11  ready?"  Rawdon  asked,  smiling  at  me 
unconcernedly. 

I  gritted  my  teeth,  took  a  firmer  hold  on  my 
reins  and  nodded.  The  groom  made  a  broad 
jump  to  one  side  that  would  have  got  him  his  "H" 
at  college,  Rawdon  sidestepped  a  quick  up-cut 
from  her  heels,  and  Cleopatra  and  I  were  alone. 
Never  before  in  my  life  have  I  felt  so  much  the 
want  of  a  chaperone.  But  the  worst  was  nearly 
over  for  the  time  being,  and  after  a  few  buck 
jumps  and  a  little  pitching  which  carried  us  down 
the  driveway  and  out  into  the  road,  she  stood 
quite  still  and  waited  for  Rawdon  and  his  big 
brown  gelding  to  come  ambling  along. 

"She's  always  fresh  like  that  in  the  morning," 
he  called,  "but  she'll  settle  down,  never  fear.  It's 
just  her  play,  you  know."  I  looked  at  Rawdon. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  it;  the  man  was  quite 
serious  and  believed  what  he  said.  I  made  up  my 
mind  then  and  there  that  when  an  honorable. 


Cleopatra 

opportunity  presented  itself  I  should  roll  off  and 
let  Cleopatra  find  another  Antony. 

It  was  some  three  or  four  miles  to  where  the 
hounds  met,  and  as  we  were  in  plenty  of  time  we 
took  it  leisurely.  Rawdon  was  very  thoughtful 
about  describing  the  country,  and  I  remember  in 
particular  his  pointing  out  the  place  where  poor  so 
and  so  broke  his  leg — or  his  neck,  I  forget  which 
now,  but  I  know  it  impressed  me  at  the  time. 
It  was  as  likely  a  place  to  break  a  leg  or  a  neck  as 
I  have  ever  seen — an  unpleasant  drop  into  a  road- 
way, over  a  fence  and  a  four-foot  ditch.  I  made 
a  mental  note  of  the  spot,  which  was  near  a  farm- 
house, and  I  felt  that  I  should  recognize  it  again 
anywhere. 

The  next  moment  Rawdon  was  alongside 
presenting  me  to  a  very  pretty  woman  who  rode 
a  gray  horse. 

"Miss  Smithson,"  he  began.  "Whoa!  John, 
I  say,  can't  you  keep  Cleopatra's  head  up?  she'll 
kick  in  another  second.  Miss  Smithson  (behave, 
will  you?),  may  I  present  Mr. — Walk  now,  you 
son  of  Satan !  (Both  spurs  and  a  yank  at  the  bit.) 
There  now,  be  quiet.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Miss 
Smithson,  something  seems  to  have  got  into 
Granny  this  morning.  This  is  Mr.  Ralston. 
Where  are  you,  John,  anyhow?  Oh,  there  you 
are!  Look  sharp;  keep  her  head  up.  Miss 
39 


Hoof  Beats 

Smithson,  Mr.  Ralston."  It  was  done.  Miss 
Smithson  and  I  knew  each  other.  She  reached 
her  hand  quite  graciously  across  Rawdon's  horse, 
who  was  between  us,  but  as  Cleopatra  seemed  to 
frown  upon  the  idea,  and  edged  farther  and  far- 
ther away,  the  pleasure  had  to  be  deferred  to 
another  time. 

We  had  stopped  now  on  the  edge  of  some  woods, 
and  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  the  huntsman  cast 
the  pack  into  the  heart  of  it,  while  some  twenty 
or  thirty  of  us  waited,  chatting  together  in  low 
tones.  One  man  had  plaited  his  horse's  tail  with 
red  ribbon.  It  was  rather  fetching,  I  thought,  and 
I  moved  over  closer  in  order  to  see  how  it  was 
done;  and  I  made  a  resolution  that  if  ever  I  owned 
a  hunter  I  would  plait  its  tail  in  red  ribbon.  I 
must  have  been  quite  close  when  the  beast  kicked 
me,  for  he  caught  my  boot  squarely  with  both 
hoofs,  and  then  squealed  in  a  perfectly  disgusting 
manner.  The  man  turned  in  his  saddle  to  see 
what  he  had  hit,  he  must  have  been  quite  used  to 
it  I  think;  and  I  imagined  he  was  going  to  apolo- 
gize for  owning  such  a  vindictive  animal,  but  he 
only  frowned  at  me  and  muttered  something 
under  his  breath.  Rawdon  rode  up  then  and  told 
me  to  keep  away,  as  the  ribbon  in  the  horse's  tail 
meant  that  he  was  a  kicker  and  I  have  no  reason  to 
doubt  him.  A  few  minutes  later  I  had  quite  for- 
40 


Cleopatra 

gotten  the  incident,  but  it  seems  Cleopatra  hadn't, 
and  once  when  the  kicker  passed  in  front  of  us,  she 
laid  her  ears  back,  stretched  out  her  neck  and 
fastened  her  teeth  in  the  other's  nose.  After  that 
I  had  a  different  feeling  toward  Cleopatra.  There 
was  something  so  finished  about  the  way  she 
avenged  me  that  I  felt  I  could  better  trust  myself 
in  her  hands,  if  only  she  did  not  bolt  those  first 
few  fields. 

The  hounds  were  whimpering  in  the  woods  now, 
and  occasionally  some  old  veteran  would  give  a 
few  staccato  notes  and  arouse  the  rest  of  the  pack 
for  a  short  interval;  but  there  did  not  seem  to  be 
any  likelihood  of  their  going  away  at  once. 

I  began  to  examine  the  country  around  me. 
Suddenly  I  realized  that  we  had  come  in  through 
a  gate  that  had  been  shut  behind  us,  into  a  field 
entirely  surrounded  by  fences.  At  first  blush 
there  is  nothing  startling  about  that;  fields  often 
have  fences  around  them  but  there  are  fences 
and  fences,  and  you  can  imagine  what  this 
one  was  like  when  I  tell  you  that  I  decided 
on  the  closed  gate  as  the  least  reckless  means  of 
egress.  Miss  Smithson's  gray  was  a  quiet, 
dignified  animal  with  a  docked  tail  and  a  pompous 
manner  of  putting  down  its  front  feet,  and  as  I 
soon  discovered  that  Cleopatra  appeared  to  be  on 
good  terms  with  it,  since  they  rubbed  the  tops  of 
41 


HooJ  Beats 

their  heads  against  each  other's  necks,  I  felt  en- 
couraged to  speak  to  Miss  Smithson  herself. 

*'How  do  you  like  Cleopatra?'*  she  asked  me 
with  a  smile  that  disclosed  some  very  pretty  white 
teeth,  and  then  not  waiting  for  me  to  answer: 
"She's  quite  a  handful,  you  know.  Mr.  Merry- 
weather  said  he  wouldn't  let  many  people  ride 
her  but  you.  You  must  ride  very  well,  don't 
you?" 

I  swallowed  hard.  I  never  enjoyed  a  compli- 
ment less. 

*'Miss  Smithson,  are  you  going  to  jump  that?" 
I  asked,  pointing  to  the  spite  fence  which  someone 
must  have  built  to  cut  off  his  neighbor's  view. 

"Of  course,"  she  said.  '*It's  the  only  way  out." 
And  then  she  began  to  laugh,  and  her  blue  eyes 
twinkled. 

*'0h,  I  know,  you're  feeling  rocky,  everyone 
does  now  and  then,"  and  she  handed  me  a  flask 
about  as  big  as  a  silver  dollar.  I  had  just  time  to 
return  it  to  her  and  take  up  my  lines  when  there 
was  a  series  of  hysterical  cries  from  the  woods. 
Suddenly  the  pack  seemed  to  have  lost  its  mind, 
and  someone  standing  up  in  his  stirrups  and  point- 
ing toward  the  valley,  over  the  highest  part  of 
the  fence,  began  to  shout,  "Gone  away!" 

It  had  been  my  intention,  as  I  have  said  before, 
to  jump  the  gate,  which  I  calculated  was  several 
4^ 


Cleopatra 

millimetres  lower  than  the  fence,  but  as  that  now 
lay  in  one  direction  and  Cleopatra  was  galloping 
as  fast  as  I  have  ever  thought  it  possible  for  any- 
thing to  gallop  in  the  other,  I  gave  up  the  idea 
altogether. 

Just  before  I  had  gone  to  bed  the  night  before, 
I  remember  Rawdon  standing  in  the  doorway, 
lamp  in  hand,  saying,  '*Cleopatra  likes  to  go  at  her 
jumps  pretty  fast,  so  don't  check  her.  Let  her  go, 
but  stop  her  when  you're  over  or  you  never  will." 
That  was  one  of  the  things  I  had  on  my  mind 
most  of  the  morning;  but  just  because  she  had  a 
reputation  for  rushing  her  jumps  seemed  to  me  no 
reason  why  she  should  act  as  if  she  had  been  sub- 
sidized to  carry  the  mails.  I  do  not  mind  saying 
I  shut  my  eyes,  and  did  not  open  them  until  I 
struck  the  other  side.  Afterwards  Rawdon,  who 
followed  me  over  on  Granny,  said  he  had  never 
seen  Cleopatra  give  such  a  brilliant  performance. 
I  rather  imagined  she  had;  it  felt  that  way,  but, 
of  course,  I  had  my  eyes  shut  and  can't  be  certain. 

The  hounds  in  the  field  beyond  were  giving 
tongue  at  a  great  rate,  for  the  frost  was  just  com- 
ing out  of  the  ground  and  the  scent  lay  strong  and 
certain.  Cleopatra  had  her  head  in  the  air,  and  as  I 
held  back  on  the  bit  I  could  feel  her  breath  coming 
sharply  through  widened  thoroughbred  nostrils, 
and  feel  her  short-coupled  back  bucking  under  me 
43 


Hoof  Beats 

as  she  fought  for  her  head.  Beyond,  the  pink 
coats  of  the  huntsman  and  the  master  went 
bobbing  on  down  the  gradual  slope  of  the  valley, 
straight  as  the  crow  flies,  over  fence,  stone  wall 
and  hedge. 

It  was  quite  apparent  to  me  by  now  that  Cleo- 
patra had  bolted.  It  was  not  to  be  doubted.  She 
had  gone  three  fields  and  as  many  fences,  and,  if 
anything,  had  increased  her  speed.  But  what 
worried  me  most  was  the  extraordinary  manner  in 
which  everything  hurt  so.  There  wasn't  a  place 
anywhere  from  my  head  to  my  feet,  which  I  could 
honestly  have  made  affidavit  to,  that  was  less 
sore  than  the  other.  In  a  way  I  daresay,  it  took 
my  mind  off  other  things  and  worked  to  my  ad- 
vantage, for  I  quite  forgot  Cleopatra  and  busied 
myself  finding  a  place  in  the  saddle  that  did  not 
rub.  Then  suddenly  I  saw  the  huntsman  go 
down  hard,  over  a  stiff  four-bar  post  and  rail  into 
a  roadway,  and  in  a  moment  the  master  followed 
him,  and  his  horse  turned  turtle  in  the  air.  For 
some  reason  or  other  it  did  not  impress  me,  and  as 
Cleopatra  and  I  galloped  at  it  quite  alone,  I  could 
not  help  but  feel  a  kind  of  admiration  for  myself. 
It  was  superb.  The  master  said  so  that  evening, 
for  he  was  the  only  one  near  enough  to  see  it  except 
the  huntsman,  and  he  was  chasing  his  horse. 
Cleopatra  rose  at  it  like  some  beautiful  bird  about 
44 


Cleopatra 

to  take  flight,  and  we  cleared  the  fence  and  a  good- 
sized  ditch  without  a  qualm. 

The  master,  who  was  trying  to  mount,  shouted 
for  me  to  go  on  with  the  hounds,  which  was  entire- 
ly unnecessary,  as  Cleopatra  had  caught  the  direc- 
tion by  the  sound  and  was  galloping  as  only  a 
thoroughbred  can.  I  had  given  up  hope  long  ago, 
and  as  I  had  been  prepared  to  die  for  some  time 
past,  there  did  not  seem  anything  in  particular 
to  do  but  wait. 

Once  I  looked  behind  me  and  saw  only  long 
stretches  of  fields  and  fences,  but  not  a  soul  in 
sight.  Then  suddenly  the  hounds  turned  sharply 
in  at  somebody's  farmyard  and  surged  over  the 
gate,  and  chopped  their  quarry  there.  Cleopatra 
surged  also.  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  try  to 
stop  her.  She  took  one  last  delightful  soar,  and 
we  sank  gracefully  but  happily  into  a  ton  of  hay. 

I  got  off,  that  is,  rather,  Cleopatra  got  off  me, 
and  I  stood  up.  All  around  me  seemed  to  reign 
peace  and  contentment.  Everything  seemed  con- 
tented; the  hounds  were  calmly  licking  their  chops, 
Cleopatra  was  breathing  heavily  but  happily  in  my 
ear;  and  I — I  stretched  my  legs  and  found  myself 
alive.     It  was  enough. 

When  the  others  came  cantering  along  a  few 
minutes  later,  I  called  to  them  and  Rawdon  got  off 

45 


Hoof  Beats 

and  tried  to  open  the  gate.     I  noticed  that  his 
chin  barely  rested  on  the  top  of  it. 

"John,"  he  called,  "how  do  you  open  this  gate? 
It's  padlocked." 

"You  don't;  you  come  over  it." 

Rawdon's  expression  was  worth  much  to  see 
then,  and  the  glances  of  the  others  quite  repaid  me. 

"Here's  the  brush,"  I  said  in  my  best  manner 
holding  up  as  much  of  it  as  I  had  been  able  to  save. 
"Quite  a  hot  scent  .f^" 

"Well,  I'll  be  d — "  said  Rawdon,  and  looked  at 
the  master. 

The  journey  home  was  something  of  a  triumph 
for  me,  and  Cleopatra,  having  done  her  worst 
trotted  along  very  demurely  with  the  others. 

"That  was  a  very  nasty  place  where  the  hunts- 
man and  the  master  came  down,"  said  Rawdon; 
"I  didn't  think  Cleopatra  had  it  in  her.  It's 
where  Smith  broke  his  leg.  You  remember  I 
showed  it  to  you  on  the  way  over." 

"The  place  where  Smith — "and  then  I  stopped. 

"What's  wrong?  feeling  a  little  worn?  you  look 
pale,"  Rawdon  inquired  solicitously. 

"Oh,  no,"  I  replied,  "not  a  bit  of  it." 

"Glad  to   hear  it,"    he    went    on,    relieved. 
"Thought  it  might  have  been  too  much  for  you 
after  you  had   not  ridden   for   so   many   years. 
You  rode  like  a  veteran." 
46 


Cleopatra 

"Whenever  I  hear  the  hounds,  you  know,  my 
blood  gets  up  and  I  can't  get  enough,"  I  replied 
loftily.  "Royal  sport,  wasn't  it?" 

"You  bet.  Cleopatra's  a  great  mare.  I  knew 
she'd  give  you  a  good  ride,"  Rawdon  said. 

"The  greatest  ever,"  I  answered. 

"You  can  ride  her  next  time." 

"Don't  mention  it,"  I  returned  absent-mind- 
edly. 

Rawdon  looked  surprised.  "Anyhow,"  he  said, 
"I'm  glad  you  enjoyed  yourself.  You  know,  I 
thought  you  might  be  a  bit  shaky  at  first.  Any 
number  are." 

I  laughed  heartily  at  the  idea. 

"Not  with  Cleopatra,"  I  replied  fatuously. 

"By  Jove,  that's  so,"  cried  Rawdon,  pleased. 
"She's  a  little  ball  of  fire,  Cleopatra  is,  a  little  ball 
of  fire." 

And  I  think  he  struck  it  just  right.  Cleopatra 
is  a  little  ball  of  fire. 


47 


HAMMERSLEY'S  PLUCK 

THE  cup  stands  over  the  fireplace  in  the 
library,  between  the  regimental  colors. 
Its  history  is  tradition  now  and  every 
subaltern  learns  it  by  heart  before  he 
has  been  in  the  regiment  a  week.  It  is  part  of  his 
education.  I  knew  the  story  well  as  they  tell  it, 
for  Hammersley  and  I  were  brother  officers,  but 
the  real  facts  of  the  case  I  learned  only  a  year  ago 
this  fall. 

The  hunting  season  was  open  and  I  had  already 
missed  several  good  "kills"  for  want  of  a  proper 
mount,  so  it  happened  that  I  was  in  the  Midland 
country  looking  about  for  a  horse  or  two  that 
could  jump,  when  one  day  I  heard  of  a  dealer  not 
far  from  where  I  was  stopping.  His  place  was  a 
rather  dilapidated,  unpromising  one,  and  I  ap- 
proached it  with  some  misgivings  that  my  time 
had  been  wasted,  but  there  was  a  pleasant  sur- 
prise for  me  when  the  "Midget"  was  led  out. 
Never  have  I  seen  a  finer  animal — nearly  seven- 
teen hands,  an  eye  full  of  courage,  and  a  thorough- 
48 


Hammersley's  Pluck 

bred  from  the  tip  of  his  nose  to  the  end  of  his  tail. 
A  little  old  bow-legged  groom  held  the  bridle  with 
both  hands,  while  he  rattled  the  bit  to  keep  him 
quiet  and  talked  to  him  in  a  low  voice.  I  knew 
at  a  glance  the  horse  would  suit  and  I  was  deter- 
mined to  have  him  if  he  could  jump  and  the  price 
was  at  all  reasonable,  so  I  asked  them  to  put  some- 
one up  and  show  me  what  he  could  do.  A  five- 
foot  hedge,  with  a  ditch  before  it,  stood  a  hundred 
yards  away,  and  the  dealer,  caUing  to  one  of  his 
boys,  told  him  to  take  the  horse  over  it. 

In  the  meantime  I  observed  the  old  groom 
gazing  at  me  curiously;  suddenly  a  gleam  of 
recognition  crossed  his  face  and  he  touched  his 
hat  deferentially.  *'Mr.  Cyril,  sir.'^"  It  was 
Hammersley's  old  stud  groom  and  trainer,  his 
hair  whitened  by  the  years  and  somewhat  gone 
down  in  the  world  since  his  master's  death,  but  the 
same  *'Judson"  whom  I  had  known  when  Ham- 
mersley  was  alive,  and  I  wrung  his  hand  like 
that  of  an  old  friend. 

The  next  instant  Judson  was  plucking  my  arm 
and  pointing  at  the  Midget  excitedly;  "There  'e 
goes,  Mr.  Cyril,  'e  will  fly  it  like  a  bird;  'e  cawn't 
be  matched  in  the  kingdom.  There,  sir,  what 
d'  I  say,  like  a  bird,  no  stopping  and  losing  'is 
stride,  just  keeps  on  going  clean  and  strong.  Ah, 
sir,  'e  takes  me  back  a  bit,"  and  the  old  man's 
49 


HooJ  Beats 

eyes  glistened.  "'E's  such  another  as  'im  his 
lordship  won  the  Queen's  Cup  with  in — .  Same 
manner  o'  going — and  'is  'ead,  sir!  Why,  me  as 
raised  'em  both  couldn't  tell  'em  apart.  But 
the  Midget's  got  a  good  disposition,  and  the  other 
got  'is  from  'ell.  You  were  in  the  colonies,  weren't 
you,  sir?  So  you  cawn't  remember,  as  I  do,  the 
crowd,  the  whole  regiment  there  and  'arf  the 
aristocracy  of  H'england  looking  on.  It  seems 
like  yesterday,  and  it's  ten  years  a  week  from 
to-morrow,  when  I  leads  out  Black  Douglas,  'im 
kicking  and  trying  'is  best  to  eat  my  harm  off,  with 
'is  lordship  sitting  there  in  the  saddle  so  pale  and 
thin. 

"Ah,  sir,  it's  so  long  ago  now,  and  both  'is 
lordship  and  Master  Harry  are  dead,  that  I  don't 
believe  as  'ow  'e'd  mind  me  telling  the  truth 
of  it,  if  you  care  to  'ear,  sir.  As  you  know,  'is 
lordship  was  always  the  'ead  of  the  house,  even 
when  the  old  earl  was  alive.  'E  was  the  one  who 
kept  things  going  and  took  all  the  blame  for  'is 
brother.  Master  Harry  was  the  worry  of  'is 
life,  being  always  in  trouble,  when  if  it  wasn't 
debts,  it  was  women.  'Is  lordship  loved  'im  better 
than  anything  in  the  world,  and  many's  the  time, 
'e  'as  come  to  me  and  said,  'Judson,'  says  'e,  *sell 
Sandhurst  or  Rosemead,'  or  some  other  fine  'orse 


50 


Hammersley*s  Pluck 

we  'ad  in  those  days,  and  well  I  knows  the  money 
is  to  pay  Master  Harry's  debts  again. 

"And  then  you  know,  sir,  as  how  arfter  'e  comes 
back  from  India,  he  begins  to  sicken  with  that 
damn  heathen  fever — asking  your  pardon  for  the 
word,  sir.  'E  never  was  the  same  again  and  'e  got 
worse  and  worse.  All  the  time  the  estate  was 
going  to  ruin  and  Master  Harry  worrying  the  life 
out  of  'im,  though  meaning  no  harm,  'e  worship- 
ping 'is  lordship. 

"It  was  one  night,  or  nearer  morning,  the  wind 
howling  and  beating  the  rain  against  the  windows 
fit  to  smash  them  in,  that  I  'ears  someone  moving 
about  below  in  the  stable.  I  jumps  out  o'  bed 
and  calls,  'Who's  there?'  'Judson,'  someone  says, 
and  I  knows  'is  voice;  *  Judson,'  'e  says,  *come 
down,'  and  I  goes  down.  There  'e  is,  standing 
with  'is  back  to  me,  'is  legs  spread  apart  and 
covered  with  mud  from  head  to  foot.  He  'ad 
rode  over  from  quarters,  a  fair  twenty  miles,  as 
you  know,  and  'is  'orse  more  dead  than  alive. 
*  Judson,'  'e  says,  never  turning  around,  when  'e 
'ears  me  behind  'im,  but  staring  at  Black  Douglas, 
*this  horse  comes  of  good  blood,  'is  great  grandsire 
won  a  Grand  National.'  'Yes,  sir,'  says  I.  Don't 
interrupt,'  says  'e,  that  being  'is  way,  and  me  as 
'adn't  seen  'im  since  'e  come  home;  but  Lord,  sir, 
'e'd  ha'  give  'is  right  'and  for  me  and  I  knowed  it. 
51 


Hoof  Beats 

Then  'e  goes  on,  still  staring  at  Black  Douglas: 
"Judson,  I  want  this  horse  fit  to  run  in  the 
"Queen's,"  two  weeks  from  today.  The  entry 
must  be  in  day  after  tomorrow.  Attend  to  it. 
I  ride  'im  myself.'  Then  'e  has  a  fit  of  shivering, 
and  I  blessed  near  dies  of  fright  when  'e  turns 
around  and  I  see  'is  face,  so  changed  it  is. 

"The  next  day  'e  sends  for  me.  I  finds  'is 
lordship  and  Master  Harry  together,  and  Master 
Harry  looking  very  sad  and  dejected.  *Judson,' 
says  'is  lordship,  T  owe  £5,000  that  must  be  paid 
a  month  from  to-day' — and  right  well  I  knows 
who  owes  it — *sell  everything  in  the  stable,  get 
the  best  odds  you  can,  and  lay  all  on  Black  Doug- 
las to  win.  I'll  lay  what  I  'ave,  myself,'  says  'e. 
Then  'e  comes  over  and  put  'is  'and  on  my  shoulder 
*Judson,'  says  'e,  *it's  the  family  honor,  that's  all.' 

"  *Yes,  sir,'  says  I,  and  goes  outside  and  flings 
my  cap  in  the  air,  for  see  what  it  means — 'is 
lordship's  colors  to  run  again,  as  once  couldn't 
be  beat,  and  me  to  train  the  greatest  three-year- 
old  in  H'england! 

"Well,  the  colt  did  fine  and  showed  better  form 
every  day,  fast  on  the  flat,  strong  at  'is  jumps  and 
liked  it.  But  'is  lordship,  'e  went  the  other  way, 
from  bad  to  worse.  So  a  week  before  the  race 
they  puts  'im  to  bed  and  'arf  the  regiment  with 
a  month's  pay  backing  'im,  too.  And  no  other 
5S 


Hammersley^s  Pluck 

man  in  the  kingdom  could  ha'  rode  Black  Douglas 
four  mile  'cross  country,  the  brute  'e  was,  the 
beauty ! 

"The  odds  were  ten  to  one  the  day  of  the  race, 
Black  Douglas  being  a  dark  'un  and  none  taking 
the  trouble  to  look  up  'is  pedigree.  I  was  stand- 
ing in  'is  stall  giving  'im  a  last  rub-down  with  a 
handful  of  straw,  and  keeping  my  eye  on  'im  to 
see  'e  didn't  kick  my  brains  out,  when  in  walks  'is 
lordship,  dressed  to  ride,  leanin'  on  Master  Harry. 

"  *Well,  Judson,'  e'  says,  'all  ready?' 

"  *A11  ready,  your  lordship,'  says  I.  *And  are 
you  going  to  ride?'  I  asks,  seeing  'im  there  so 
faint  and  pale.  'Who  else?'  says  'e,  sharp  like; 
but  that  was  always  'is  way — few  words. 

"When  the  bugle  sounded  I  give  'is  lordship  a 
leg  up  and  leads  'em  out  on  the  course.  Black 
Douglas  was  fighting  ugly,  for  the  crowds  and  the 
band  set  'im  crazy. 

"The  grand  stands  and  paddock  were  jammed, 
and  as  we  went  by,the  Guards  give  us  three  cheers. 
I  tell  you  that  made  me  feel  proud.  There  were 
fifteen  other  starters,  all  good  'uns,  too,  but  none 
of  'em  looked  like  Black  Douglas  as  I'd  raised 
from  a  foal,  and  none  of  the  gentlemen  sat  a 
horse  like  my  lord. 

"The  music  and  the  cheers  from  the  Guards 
still  rang  in  my  ears,  when  down  went  the  flag 
53 


Hoof  Beats 

and  they  were  hoff.  There  was  no  keeping  back 
with  Black  Douglas.  When  the  flag  fell  'e  bolted 
and  at  the  first  jump  he  was  a  good  'arf  dozen 
lengths  in  the  lead.  The  pace  'e  was  going  was 
awful;  I  shut  my  eyes  and  prayed,  and  when  I 
opened  'em  again,  he  was  safe  over  and  leading, 
with  the  field  pressing  'im  hard. 

"Ah,  but  the  way  my  lord  rode  was  a  picture; 
never  a  move  did  he  make!  He  glued  his  knees 
to  the  saddle  and  gave  the  colt's  head  free  play. 
The  crowd  was  yelling  itself  hoarse,  and  Black 
Douglas  still  in  the  front,  going  strong;  'is  lord- 
ship quiet  and  cool.  Twice  they'd  been  around, 
them  always  leading,  when  the  favorite  began  to 
draw  on.  It  was  just  before  the  water  jump,  and 
I  see  'is  lordship  take  one  look  back  when  'e 
heard  the  sound  of  the  other.  The  favorite's 
nose  reached  the  leg  of  'is  boot,  then  'is  lordship 
leaned  forward  on  Black  Douglas'  neck  and  I  see 
the  flash  of  the  sun  on  'is  whip  as  it  rose  and  fell 
three  times.  They  took  the  water  together,  the 
grand  stand  rose  as  one  man  and  a  great  shout 
went  up  as  they  cleared  it.  But  the  blood  in  'em 
tells  every  time  and  the  sting  of  the  whip  drove 
Black  Douglas  mad. 

"One  more  jump,  then  'arf  a  mile  to  the  finish; 
the  crowd  barely  breathed  as  it  watched.  The 
two  were  running  side  by  side,  and  as  they  came 
54 


Hammersley's  Pluck 

to  the  hedge  I  gritted  my  teeth  while  my  eyes 
burned  in  their  sockets.  They  were  over,  and  the 
field  was  left  far  behind.  Then  my  lord  started 
in  to  ride,  and  such  a  finish  was  never  seen.  The 
favorite  was  forcing  'im  hard  and  both  were  at 
whip  and  spur.  Neck  and  neck  they  came  down 
the  stretch.  I  couldn't  see  which  was  leading; 
'twas  'orrible  not  to  know. 

"Then  I  see  Black  Douglas  make  one  last  effort 
a  'undred  yards  from  the  wire,  and  with  the  crowd 
screaming  and  surging  over  the  course,  'e  wins  by 
a  length. 

'T  can  see  'im  now,  'is  lordship  drooping  on 
Black  Douglas'  neck  as  'e  rides  'im  back  and 
weighs  in.  Then  the  Guards,  Tommies  and  all, 
rushes  over  and  carries  'im  hoff  on  their  shoulders, 
'e  sitting  there  smiling  a  little,  white  as  a  sheet, 
'olding  the  big  silver  cup  with  both  'ands.  Then 
me  and  Master  Harry,  'im  with  the  tears  running 
down  his  cheeks,  leads  Black  Douglas  back  to  the 
paddock. 

"We  win  near  £8,000  that  day,  and  the  'orse 
'imself  would  ha'  sold  for  £5,000  after  the  race. 
But  it  all  wasn't  worth  it,  sir,  no  not  to  none  of  us, 
for  it  killed  'is  lordship  as  you  know.  My  lord 
lasted  two  days  and  then  'is  heart,  which  the  fever 
and  racing  'ad  damaged,  give  in  and  'e  died. 
They  give  'im  a  funeral  fit  for  a  field  marshal,  for 
55 


Hoof  Beats 

the  Guards,  you  see,  loved  'im  and  thought  'e*d 
done  it  for  them,  and  I'm  not  saying  'e  wouldn't 
ha'  done  it,  but  I  knows  it  was  for  Master  Harry.'* 

"What,  sir,"  the  old  groom's  voice  trembled, 
"bring  down  the  Midget  and  take  charge  'o 
your  stable — do  you  mean  it,  sir?  My  luggage, 
Mr.  Cyril?  I  got  it  on,  sir,  asking  your  pardon. 
Ah,  it'll  be  grand  to  serve  a  gentleman  again,  and 
you  an  old  friend  of  my  lord's." 


56 


THE    BROOK 

STRIVING  found  himself  obliged  to  take 
a  slow  train.  It  left  more  than  an  hour 
ahead  of  the  limited,  paid  its  respects  at 
each  hamlet  and  finally  crawled  into  New 
York  only  fifteen  minutes  ahead  of  the  limited 
itself.  But  every  minute  was  worth  dollars  and 
cents  to  the  oflSce.  Striving  was  accustomed  to 
fast  trains  and  hated  slow  ones,  besides  he  was 
not  in  a  very  amiable  frame  of  mind.  He  felt 
overworked,  below  par. 

"D — "  Striving  addressed  the  station  porter 
who  carried  his  bag. 
*'Sah?" 

Striving  regarded  the  man  impersonally.     "I'm 
tired.     I'm  sick  of  it." 

"Yes,  sah,  what  seat  did  you  all  have,  sah?" 

"Seventeen,"  snapped  Striving. 

The  negro  led  the  way,  deposited  the  bag  fussily 

and  remained  standing  nearby   with   the    usual 

air  of  anxious  expectancy.     His  hopes  gratified 

he  expressed  his  thanks  by  a  grinning  display  of 

57 


Hoof  Beats 

white  teeth  and  touched  his  cap.  Striving  flung 
his  coat  and  hat  up  in  the  rack  overhead  and 
dropped  into  seat  number  seventeen. 

"Sick  of  it,  sick  of  it,"  he  murmured,  "of  the 
fight  for  money.     I  never  cared  for  it  anyhow.'* 

The  train  started.  Striving  was  due  in  New 
York  at  eleven.  That  afternoon  he  was  to  try  a 
disagreeable  and  intricate  case  in  the  Surrogate 
Court  of  Appeals.  No  one  knew  it  better  than 
Striving.  He  didn't  feel  up  to  it,  but  he  knew  he 
would  do  it  well.  Everyone  said  he  would  do  it 
well.  That  was  why  the  office  had  sent  him. 
What  he  needed,  he  told  himself,  was  a  rest,  a 
good  long  rest  out  of  doors,  away  from  the  sight 
of  a  desk. 

The  train  acquired  speed  and  Striving  watched 
the  moving  scene;  elevated  trains  that  kept  pace 
for  awhile  and  then  little  by  little  dropped  behind ; 
smoke-begrimed  tenements,  with  washings  that 
swung  in  the  November  breeze,  between  windows, 
from  which  women  scantily  clad  leaned,  calling 
to  one  another  across  dark  areas  which  the  sun 
never  penetrated ;  children  playing  wildly  at  some 
game  in  the  streets  and  alleyways. 

The  city  was  left  behind.     A  row   of  cheap 

suburban  cottages  followed,  each  with  its  quarter 

acre   of   land.     Striving    breathed    more    freely. 

They  were  getting  into  the  country.     The  coun- 

58 


The  Brook 

try !  He  had  almost  forgotten  what  it  looked  like. 
A  dog  raced  madly  toward  the  train, — pursued 
it  barking.  A  factory  came  next,  one  entire  wall 
covered  with  huge  letters  in  black  and  white 
recommending  a  well-known  ''morning  after" 
drug;  then  a  corn  field,  a  meadow,  a  silver  brook, 
a  post-and-rail  fence,  a  ditch,  an  abandoned  race- 
track, the  grand  stand  tumbling,  grass  growing 
in  the  unused  track.  Striving  noticed  that  a 
scrub  game  of  football  was  in  progress  in  the 
ellipse  where  once  a  steeplechase  course  had 
flourished.  His  face  clouded;  he  had  loved  the 
sport  once.  He  had  done  it  well  they  said.  It 
was  the  only  thing  Striving  thought  that  he  had 
ever  done  really  well. 

The  speed  of  the  train  increased.  It  passed 
rumbling  over  a  trestle  straddling  a  small  stream. 
On  the  opposite  bank  leaves  were  burning.  They 
made  a  great  glare  even  in  the  morning  light. 
Striving  watched  indifferently.  He  was  think- 
ing of  the  Surrogate  Court  of  Appeals.  In  a 
meadow  ahead  he  saw  a  mare  and  foal  drinking  at 
a  tiny  stream  of  clear  water,  who  suddenly,  as 
the  roar  of  the  train  reached  them,  tossed  their 
heads  high  and  went  galloping  off,  nostrils  dilated, 
manes  and  tails  flying.  Striving  imagined  he 
could  almost  hear  the  thoroughbred  snort  of 
mingled  fear  and  rage.  The  mare  and  foal  were 
59 


Hoof  Beats 

aristocrats,  any  one  could  see  that  at  a  glance. 
In  an  instant  they  were  lost. 

Striving  knew  he  ought  to  be  going  over  and 
over  the  printed  brief  in  the  green  bag  at  his  side. 
What  was  that  the  senior  partner  had  said  just  as 
he  was  leaving?  What  ivas  it?  Striving  knitted 
his  brows.  Anyhow  what  difference  did  it  make? 
Oh  yes,  now  he  remembered. 

"Striving,"  the  senior  partner  had  remarked, 
in  that  perfectly  arid,  bloodless  way  of  his,  "Striv- 
ing, keep  one  thing  in  mind,  and  that  is  that  a 
residuary  devise,  if  it  fails,  goes  intestate.  Ham- 
mer 'em.     Make  'em  see  it,  d'ye  hear?" 

Oh  yes,  he  heard.  Of  course  he'd  hammer  'em. 
But  he  couldn't  help  thinking  of  that  mare  and 
foal  by  the  stream.  The  mare  reminded  him  of 
old  Gypsy.  How  Gypsy  could  gallop!  They 
couldn't  catch  her  once  she  got  well  away, — and 
only  fifteen  one  at  that — hardly  more  than  a  pony. 

The  train  passed  into  broad,  open  country. 
Striving  leaned  back  more  comfortably.  It  was 
good  to  see  the  great  rolling  fields  checkered  with 
well  kept  stone  walls  and  fences.  He  jammed  his 
heavy  carry-all  bag  to  one  side  and  stretched  his 
long  legs  past  the  chair  in  front  of  him.  Then  he 
yawned  and  continued  to  gaze  at  the  fast  moving 
landscape  a  little  wistfully. 

Striving  was  your  hard-bitted  type,  born  for 
60 


The  Brook 

the  saddle,  a  nice  depth  of  chest,  a  narrow  waist, 
and  lean  flat  legs.  Even  years  at  a  desk  where 
electric  lights  burned  half  the  day  had  not  spoiled 
his  gift  of  birth.  His  skin  too,  was  hard  still,  and 
if  one  looked  closely, — most  people  did  at  Striving 
— one  saw  it  had  once  been  a  deep  reddish  bronze. 

Striving  yawned  again,  then  opened  the  leather 
case  at  his  side  and  extracted  a  bundle  of  papers 
and  a  printed  brief  some  hundred  and  twenty 
pages  long.  He  glanced  at  the  latter  casually, 
disinterestedly  at  first,  and  then  gradually,  with 
an  effort,  forced  himself  to  a  final  careful  perusal. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  the  train  was 
running  more  and  more  slowly  and  he  looked  up 
with  an  expression  of  annoyance.  Finally  it 
stopped  with  a  groan  and  whistling  of  released  air 
brakes  at  a  small  station  the  shed  of  which  pro- 
jected over  the  train  and  made  further  reading 
impracticable.  Striving  drew  out  his  watch  and 
noted  that  they  were  twenty  minutes  behind  the 
schedule,  threw  the  printed  brief  of  the  Surrogate 
Court  of  Appeals  ignominiously  upon  the  floor  of 
the  car  and  shut  his  eyes.  When  at  last  he  opened 
them  the  train  had  moved  out  of  the  station  and 
the  car  was  light  again,  but  he  did  not  pick  up  the 
brief.  He  saw  that  someone  had  taken  the  chair 
ahead  of  him.  It  had  been  empty  before.  Over 
the  top  appeared  a  derby  hat,  that  was  all.  It 
61 


Hoof  Beats 

amused  Striving  to  study  character,  he  had  found 
the  dress  and  luggage  of  travelers  often  a  good 
index,  but  here  all  to  be  seen  was  the  top  of  a 
derby  hat  and  no  luggage  at  all,  so  he  turned  again 
to  watching  the  scene  without.  It  was  growing 
more  beautiful  every  moment, — large  open  rolling 
country,  not  too  flat,  not  too  hilly,  just  exactly 
right  he  thought, — for  hunting. 

He  leaned  towards  the  windows  and  rested  his 
elbows  on  the  sill,  his  chin  in  his  hands,  staring. 
The  chair  ahead  turned  slighty  and  from  under  the 
derby  hat  a  pair  of  eyes  regarded  him,  but  Striv- 
ing did  not  notice, — he  was  riding  to  hounds.  It 
had  come  back  to  him  with  a  rush,  years  of  it, 
hard  riding,  straight  riding,  and  a  slight  flush 
appeared  on  his  now  rather  pale  cheeks. 

They  were  passing  through  a  beautiful  valley. 
At  one  place  a  stout  post-and-rail  fence  guarded 
the  top  of  a  ploughed  field  on  the  side  of  a  hill. 
At  the  bottom  a  broad  stream  ran  swiftly.  The 
approach  to  the  fence  was  good  solid  turf. 

"Splendid,"  Striving  murmured,"but  the  deuce, 
look  at  the  *drop'  and  the  plough  soft,  too."  He 
clenched  his  hands. 

*'Who  cares,  who  cares,  we  can  do  it.      Keep 

your  hocks  well  under  you  and  your  head  up. 

Now!  well  over,  Gypsy,  and  Vare  the  brook.     Go 

it  lightly,  through  this  plough,  you'll  need  all 

6^ 


The  Brook 

your  power  soon,  the  brook  looks  nasty  and  wide. 
Now  for  it  where  that  old  tree  is  down." 

"Don't,"  a  voice  whispered,  "not  there,  not 
there,  the  bank  gives  way,  and  it's  twenty  feet 
across." 

Striving  started.  The  chair  ahead  had  swung 
around  and  was  pointing. 

"Ride  to  the  right,  to  the  right  where  the  willow 
is.  Ride  hard  and  give  him  his  head  when  you're 
there." 

"Never,"  Striving  did  not  look  around.  "I'm 
sure  hounds  would  go  across  there.  We  ride  as 
the  crow  flies,  where  that  old  tree  is  down.  If 
it's  twenty  feet  wide  we'll  swim." 

The  train  rumbled  across  a  trestle  and  fifty  feet 
below,  the  stream  flowed  rapidly. 

* 'There,  there's  the  place,  I  know  I  can  do  it. 
The  landing  looks  good  from  here." 

Striving  stretched  out  his  arms,  his  fingers 
tightly  gripped.  He  was  riding  the  brook.  Then 
instantaneously  it  passed  from  view. 

"You  see,  you  see, "he  cried,  not  looking  around, 
"I  knew  I  could  do  it." 

A  ripple  of  laughter  replied  and  Striving  swung 
swiftly  around.  The  laugh  still  rippled  and 
Striving  turned  bright  red.  He  could  feel  the  hot 
flush  creeping  up  to  his  hair,  he  wasn't  quite  sure 
whether  he  was  more  embarrassed  or  angry. 
63 


Hoof  Beats 

"Look  here,  what  did  you  say?"     He  swung  the 
chair  ahead  around.     He  faced  a  pair  of  blue 
eyes  and  white  teeth  that  flashed,  a  habit,  and  a 
pair  of  smart-looking  boots. 
*0h!" 

The  ripple  still  rippled  on.  * 

**I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  so  sorry.  I  saw  your 
hat,  you  know,  and  thought  you  were  a  man," 
he  made  a  movement  as  if  to  rise  and  bow,  but 
a  hand  touched  him  and  the  ripple  ceased. 

"Don't  move,"  the  voice  cried,  "or  you'll  miss 
the  best  of  all.  We're  coming  now, — to  the  *lane' !" 

"The  lane!" 

"Of  course,  the  'lane'!  I  thought  everyone 
knew  the  lane.  There  now,  just  behind  that 
house.  Tn  and  out'  you  know,  and  four  foot  six 
each  way.  Oh  but  I  loved  the  way  you  rode  the 
Babbington  Brook,  no  one  ever  jumped  it  there 
before!"  The  eyes  twinkled  and  the  lips  were 
compressed  to  keep  the  laughter  back.  Striving 
threw  back  his  head  and  laughed,  laughed  as  he 
hadn't  done  for  years. 

"And  now  for  the  lane!" 

"Come  on,"  the  girl  replied. 

They  were  both  riding  now  and  had  forgotten 
the  rest  of  the  car. 

"Fearfulfrate   we're   going,"   Striving   smiled. 
The  train  was  making  up  time.     The  girl  laughed. 
64 


The  Brook 

"Frightful,  we'll  never  get  out  of  the  lane  alive. 
You  see  there  it  is,  right  there,  don't  you  see,  just 
this  side  of  that  house.  That's  Farmer  Twillin's 
house.  He  detests  to  have  us  go  through.  Now 
you  ride  there,  just  where  the  top  rail  is  down. 
It's  the  easiest  place,  we  always  put  the  novices 
over  there!" 

She  glanced  at  Striving  out  of  the  corner  of  her 
eye.  He  did  not  observe  the  fun  that  was  there. 
He  was  watching  the  lane. 

"I'll  not  "  he  protested.  "There's  where  I  go, 
where  they've  put  in  a  brand  new  rail.  A  fall 
will  do  me  good.  You  go  where  the  rail  is  down, 
that's  the  place  for  a  woman." 

"I'll  not,"  the  girl  replied  in  turn;  "if  you  go 
there,  I  go,"and  the  fun  died  out  of  her  eyes  and 
she  bit  her  lip  with  her  teeth.  To  both  the  thing 
seemed  extraordinarily  real. 

The  lane  was  approaching  fast  and  neither 
spoke.  Then  like  lightning  the  train  flashed  past 
and  both  glanced  at  each  other  and  laughed. 

"This  is  your  country?"  Striving  asked. 

"Yes,  I  get  off  at  Weston,  that's  the  next  stop, 
you  know.     The  hounds  are  meeting  there." 

Striving's  face  expressed  his  chagrin. 

"I'm  sorry.     I'd  like  to  have  you  tell  me  how 
it  feels  to  ride  over  country  like  that." 
65 


Hoof  Beats 

"But  you  ride,  of  course,"  the  girl  insisted. 

'*No,  that  is,  I  haven't  for  years  you  see." 

He  suddenly  became  aware  that  the  girl  oppo- 
site him  had  beautiful  hair,  and  a  wonderful  red  in 
her  cheeks,  good  healthy  outdoor  red. 

*'0h,  and  why  did  you  give  it  up?  I  could 
never  do  that,  give  up  riding!" 

"It  wasn't  easy.  It  isn't  easy  now,  but  one 
can't  practice  law  and  ride,  now  can  they.''"  he 
appealed. 

"But  why  practice  law.''"  the  girl  laughed,  and 
then,  "Oh  I'm  sorry  I  said  that,  it  sounded  silly. 
Of  course  you  were  right.  Men  can't  just  ride, 
someone  has  to  practice  law  and  build  bridges.  I 
daresay  the  world  wouldn't  go  very  far  if  men  only 
rode  horses." 

Striving  frowned.  "I  don't  know,"  he  went  on 
half  to  himself,  "I'm  not  so  sure  it  makes  much 
difference." 

The  girl  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"It  is  pretty  country,  isn't  it?"  she  asked,  "and 
we  rarely  draw  a  blank.  We're  not  very  smart 
perhaps,  but  we  have  a  nice  little  club  and  one 
really  does  have  to  ride  to  get  over  the  fences 
about  here.  And  then,  too,  we  don't  have  such 
large  crowds  out  and  that's  rather  nice.  Every- 
body knows  everybody  else  and  we  ride  our  own 
li^es," 


The  Brook 

The  train  was  running  more  slowly.  Both  were 
conscious  of  it.  Striving  looked  at  the  girl  and 
smiled  a  little  disappointedly.  She  seemed  to 
understand. 

"I  get  off  here.  I'm  awfully  sorry.  I  wish  you 
were  going  with  us."  And  then  she  laughed, 
spontaneously.  "But  it's  good  you're  not.  You 
never  could  have  ridden  Babbington  Brook  there 
by  the  fallen  tree." 

"I  could,"  said  Striving  doggedly,  and  the  girl 
laughed  again. 

The  brakes  ground  on  the  wheels.  The  train 
slowed  up  and  stopped  before  a  tiny  station.  Just 
around  the  corner  Striving  had  a  vague  idea  he 
caught  sight  of  a  scarlet  coat.  The  girl  got  up  and 
put  out  her  hand. 

*T'm  sorry,"  she  said  again,  "that  you  can't  be 
with  us." 

Striving  took  the  gloved  hand  and  shook  it 
vigorously.  It  was  not  so  very  large,  but  it  was 
quite  firm  and  strong  and  responded. 

"Good   luck." 

He  followed  her  to  the  end  of  the  car. 

"We're  strangers,"  he  went  on,  "I  won't  be 
seen  speaking  to  you.  Your  friends  might  not 
understand." 

Again  came  the  delicious  rippling  laugh. 

"It  wasn't  exactly  according  to  the  rules,  was 
67 


Hoof  Beats 

it,  but — "  she  held  out  her  hand  again,  "Good  bye! 

Striving  watched  her  disappear  around  the 
corner  of  the  station  with  a  greater  feehng  of 
regret  than  he  could  understand. 

'*Jove,"  he  muttered,  "Jove,  I'll  bet  she  can 
ride,  too.     I  haven't  seen  a  girl  like  her  for  years." 

He  sprang  down  the  steps  and  walked  to  the  end 
of  the  platform.  The  conductor  and  the  engineer 
were  talking  heatedly  with  the  telegraph  operator 
who  had  run  out  from  his  office.  Evidently  they 
were  being  held  up  to  let  some  faster  train  by. 
No  doubt  he  had  a  minute  or  two.  He  walked 
toward  the  corner  of  the  station.  What  luck! 
There  they  were,  the  pack  just  coming  down  the 
road,  and  a  dozen  men  and  women  nearby,  some 
mounted,  others  tightening  girths  and  fussing 
with  stirrup  leathers.  She  was  there,  too,  on  a 
big-boned  thoroughbred  gray.  He  looked  as  if 
he  could  gallop.  Striving  thought,  and  the  girl  sat 
as  if  only  a  fall  could  bring  her  out  of  the  saddle. 
His  breath  came  rapidly  as  the  hounds  drew  near 
and  his  heart  pounded  as  it  hadn't  done  for 
years.  The  girl  turned  and  saw  him.  He 
thought  he  could  see  the  half  twinkle  in  her  eyes 
that  he  had  noticed  on  the  train,  but  she  looked 
swiftly  away  again.  He  was  afraid  she  was 
offended,  perhaps  he  shouldn't  have  come,  it 
seemed  like  following  her.     He  hoped  she  wouldn't 

68 


The  Brook 

think  him  so  unsportsmanlike,  he  really  hadn't 
intended  it  like  that.  He  wished  he  could  tell  her 
so.     Some  day  he  would,  he  determined. 

The  hounds  were  drawing  close  now,  following 
after  the  Master.  They  were  a  well-drafted  look- 
ing lot,  and  the  horse,  too,  the  Master  rode  was  good 
to  look  upon.  Striving  stared.  There  was  some- 
thing very  familiar  about  the  way  the  master  stuck 
out  his  feet  and  kept  whistling  all  the  time  he  rode. 
Striving  thought  he  could  almost  catch  the  tune. 
He  did  at  last,  and  stared  harder  than  ever.  Why 
it  was  Jerry  himself,  Jerry  of  the  old  days.  They 
recognized  each  other  simultaneously  and  the 
Master  gave  a  great  shout  that  put  the  hounds  into 
an  ecstacy  of  frenzied  delight.  Striving  sprang 
forward  down  the  road  to  meet  the  spurred 
horse  and  the  two  men's  hands  clasped.  The 
others  watched  in  wonder,  no  one  had  ever  seen 
Jerry  Riker  show  enthusiasm  before  for  anything 
but  horses  and  hounds. 

"Splendid,"  he  cried,  "you've  been  coming  for 
over  five  years,  but  it's  all  right  so  you've  come 
at  last." 

Striving  shook  his  head. 

"Can't.     I'm  on  my  way  to  New  York  to  try  a 

case  in  the  Court  of  Appeals.     That's  my  train." 

He  pointed  backwards  over  his  shoulder.     The 

other  looked  up  and  suddenly  began  to  holloa. 

69 


HooJ  Beats 

"Train!     Where?"    he    cried.     It    had    gone. 

Striving  wheeled  quickly. 

A  big-boned  thoroughbred  gray  was  standing 
near  him,  and  he  was  sure  he  heard  a  ripple  of 
clear  laughter,  then  he  raced  for  the  station.  In 
the  distance  the  train  was  just  disappearing  and 
all  he  could  see  was  the  end  of  the  rear  car  and  a 
flutter  of  green  flag.  When  he  returned  the 
Master  was  still  chortling  and  rocking  from  side  to 
side  on  his  horse.  Striving  hardly  knew  whether 
to  be  angry  or  not.  The  girl  had  turned  her  face 
away  as  he  approached,  but  he  could  see  her 
shoulders  shake.     He  stopped. 

"You  knew,"  he  whispered,  and  the  derby  hat 
bobbed  up  and  down. 

Striving  knitted  his  brows  in  vexation. 

"I've  got  to  get  OH  somehow,  Jerry.  I  wish  I 
could  stop  but — " 

The  Master  grinned  exasperatingly. 

"Only  two  trains  stop  here,  the  one  you  came 
on  and  the  other  at  two." 

"Oh  Lord!"  Striving  groaned,  "and  my  brief, 
what  will  Atkins  say?" 

"Let  Atkins  go  hang,"  the  Master  insisted, 
"and  jump  on  my  second  horse.  She'll  give  you 
the  ride  of  your  life." 

Striving  shook  his  head  again  vigorously.  The 
70 


The  Brook 

keen  sense  of  his  responsibility  brought  him  up 
alertly. 

"Impossible,  the  case  would  go  by  default." 
He  looked  up  and  saw  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  watching 
him,  and  a  pair  of  lips  that  pursed,  pretending  to 
whistle.  It  came  to  him  with  a  rush  that  she 
thought  him  afraid. 

It  cut  him,  but  he  couldn't  help  it.  Then  he 
walked  to  the  station,  leaving  Jerry  swearing 
mildly  under  his  breath.  For  a  moment  he  hesi- 
tated, then  decision  came  to  him.  He  hurried 
into  the  telegraph  operator's  office  and  picked  up 
the  telephone  he  saw  there.  In  a  short  time  he 
had  the  opposing  attorneys  on  the  wire  in  New 
York. 

"What  time  does  Grant  vs.  EHis  go  on?"  he 
called. 

For  a  moment  he  listened,  not  speaking,  then 
"three  o'clock,"  he  repeated,  "Good  bye,"  and 
hung  up  the  receiver.  He  glanced  at  his  watch. 
It  was  nearly  eleven.  The  run  was  only  forty-five 
minutes  to  New  York.  He  shut  his  watch  with  a 
snap  and  bolted  out  of  the  station.  He  saw  the 
groom  on  the  second  horse  nearby.  It  was  more 
than  up  to  his  weight,  but,  he  couldn't  deny  the 
fact  to  himself,  he  felt  a  little  shaky.  He  hadn't 
ridden  for  years  and  to  get  on  a  horse  he  had  never 
seen  before  and  ride  over  that  country  he  had 
71 


Hoof  Beats 

watched  from  the  train;  well,  it  made  him  feel  a 
little  weak  in  the  knees. 

Then  all  of  a  sudden  the  unexpected  happened. 
One  young  hound  that  had  wandered  off  into  a 
field  unbeknownst  to  the  Master  had  found  some- 
thing there,  for  his  voice  was  raised  joyfully  to  the 
skies.  In  an  instant  the  Master  was  busily  alert 
blowing  his  horn  and  shouting,  but  to  no  avail,  the 
pack  went  over  and  under  the  fence,  kaleidoscopic 
flashes  of  white  and  brown. 

Down  the  road  the  Master  galloped  with  every- 
one following  after.  Only  Striving  and  the  groom 
with  the  second  horse  were  left.  The  groom 
fidgeted  and  glared  at  Striving;  he  wanted  to  be 
off,  but  he  had  had  his  orders.  Striving  looked  at 
his  watch  and  then  at  the  railroad  station,  and 
thought  of  the  Surrogate  Court  of  Appeals.  The 
next  instant  he  had  pulled  the  groom  out  of  the 
saddle  and  was  galloping  down  the  road.  How 
it  all  came  back  to  him  after  so  many  years.  The 
big  thoroughbred  mare  with  her  long  rangy  gallop 
set  him  in  a  thrill  of  expectancy  to  see  what  she 
could  do  at  a  fence.  In  the  distance  he  saw  the 
hounds  had  struck  a  line  across  country  in  the 
direction  from  which  his  train  had  come.  Soon 
he  caught  the  others  up  and  they  all  jammed  at  a 
gate,  the  Master  swearing  wildly,  but  nobody 
minded  or  heard.  Then  with  a  rush  they  were 
72 


The  Brook 

through,  and  Striving,  his  trousers  flapping  at 
his  ankles,  rode  straight  past  the  girl  with  the  gray. 

"You  came,"  he  heard  her  whisper,  "I'm  so 
glad.     I  thought  for  a  moment  you — " 

"You  thought,"  he  grinned,  "I  could  only  ride, 
— on  a  train." 

The  girl  nodded  and  flushed,  and  Striving  felt 
like  a  brute.  But  there  was  no  time  now  to  talk; 
the  hounds  were  two  fields  away  and  running 
abreast  high  scent.  Striving  thought  it  the  pretti- 
est music  he  had  heard  in  years.  They  were  all 
riding  hard  at  a  stiff  board  fence  and  each  was 
choosing  his  panel.  The  brown  mare  took  it 
almost  in  her  stride,  but  the  gray  flashed  past  her 
in  the  air,  and  Striving  was  sure  he  heard  a  rippling 
laugh.  She  was  ahead  of  him  now  and  he  felt  a 
wonderful  pleasure  in  watching  the  wind  as  it 
whipped  at  her  hair  and  the  way  she  sat  her  horse. 

He  recalled  landmarks  here  and  there  that  he 
had  seen  from  the  train  and  he  knew  they  were 
coming  soon  to  the  lane.  He  jabbed  the  brown 
mare  with  his  heels  and  galloped  close  to  the 
gray.  The  girl's  face  was  pink,  their  eyes  met 
and  this  time  she  did  not  laugh. 

"Oh,"  she  begged,  "I  was  only  joking, — be 
careful.  Please  follow  me,  this  is  all  new  country 
to  you."     But  Striving  threw  back  his  head  and 

73 


HooJ  Beats 

laughed,  a  big  boyish  laugh  and  sent  the  brown 
mare  along. 

They  were  leading  the  rest  of  the  field  with 
only  the  Master  ahead.  Striving  could  see  him 
look  back  every  now  and  then  and  shout.  Behind 
him  he  heard  the  pounding  of  the  gray's  hoofs. 
Once  he  glanced  back  and  waved  his  hand,  but 
the  girl  did  not  reply.  A  few  fields  away  he  saw 
a  house  with  below  it  a  row  of  trees  and  recogniged 
the  lane.  He  marked  the  place  where  the  new 
panel  should  be  and  soon  saw  it  shining  on  the 
other  side.  They  were  going  a  rattling  pace,  for 
the  ground  was  damp  and  the  hounds  had  never 
lost  scent.  The  lane  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  hill,  and 
Striving  rode  at  it  barely  checking  at  all.  The 
mare  jumped  in  clean  and  he  called  to  her  when 
she  jumped  out  over  the  stiff  new  rail.  As  he 
landed  safely,  a  gray  nose  forged  at  his  knee.  He 
drew  rein,  put  out  a  hand  and  gripped  two  smaller 
ones  in  his. 

'*You  mustn't,"  he  said.  "It's  all  right  for  me. 
It  doesn't  make  any  difference,  you  know,  about 
me,  but  the  pace  is  too  hot  for  a  woman  to  ride 
like  that." 

The  face  was  a  little  pinched  and  the  color 
gone.  It  was  the  hardest  day  for  years  and 
the  hounds  had  never  checked  at  all. 

"I'll  follow  you.  I  said  I  would  on  the  train," 
74 


The  Brook 

the  answer  came.  This  time  there  was  no  laugh- 
ter. They  went  more  slowly  through  a  deep 
plough,  both  horses  laboring,  then  out  over  a  low 
stone  wall  and  on  to  more  solid  ground  again. 

"The  brook  comes  next,"  Striving  heard  a 
rather  small  voice  call,  and  smiled  and  rode  ahead. 

"Take  it  down  there,"  he  commanded,  pointing, 
"I'm  going  here."  It  was  near  the  fallen  tree. 
Then  he  sat  down  deep  in  the  saddle  and  struck 
hard  with  both  heels.  The  mare  did  not  slacken 
her  speed  at  all  but  seemed  to  fly  off  the  bank. 
She  landed  with  her  fore  feet  on  the  other  side 
and  fought  like  a  cat  for  a  footing.  She  won,  and 
was  out  and  standing  trembling  on  the  other  side. 
Striving  turned  in  the  saddle  and  waved  to  the 
girl  to  go  back,  but  the  gray  was  already  out- 
stretched in  the  air,  a  wild  light  in  his  eyes,  his 
head  high.  The  next  instant  he  had  struck 
short  of  the  opposite  bank  with  his  forelegs 
crumpled,  and  the  stream  had  caught  both  and 
rolled  them  under. 

Striving  was  off  his  horse  in  a  flash.  Down 
stream  a  hea\'y  root  projected  and  he  could  see 
that  it  had  caught  them.  The  girl  was  out  of  the 
saddle,  but  holding  tight  to  the  pommel.  Striv- 
ing was  not  a  good  swimmer,  but  he  went  in  with- 
out hesitation  and  in  a  moment  had  the  girl  in 
his  arms.  The  gray  was  keeping  his  head  out  of 
75 


HooJ  Beats 

water  and  pawing  madly  for  a  footing  on  the  bank 
which  was  lower  and  more  solid  here.  Striving 
called  to  him  and  the  horse  responded  madly. 
Then  with  one  wild  effort  all  three  came  out  to- 
gether, dripping  and  exhausted.  The  gray  stood 
shaking  with  fright  for  a  moment,  and  then 
galloped  crazily  away.  In  the  distance  the  brown 
mare  joined  him  and  the  two  raced  across  the 
open  fields. 

Striving  laid  the  girl  on  the  ground.  Her  eyes 
were  closed.  He  chafed  her  hands  and  called 
to  her  in  sudden  fear.  Her  eyes  opened  and 
searched  his,  then  her  head  fell  back  on  his  arm. 

"Oh,  why  did  you  do  it?"  Striving  pleaded. 
*Tt  was  no  place  for  a  woman  to  ride." 

The  other  smiled  a  little  weakly. 

'T  said  I — ",  she  gasped  a  little  for  breath  and 
her  breast  heaved,  'T  said  I  would  follow  you,  you 
know, — and  I,  that  time  I  doubted  you.  I'm 
sorry." 

Striving  smoothed  back  her  hair,  which  clung 
damp  to  her  forehead. 

He  bent  nearer.  '*'I  don't  know  who  you  are, 
but  you  are  a  nervy  little  beggar." 

The  other  smiled  somewhat  wanly.  "So  are 
you,"  she  said. 

Their  eyes  met  again.     Striving  looked  away 
and  his  arm  trembled  a  bit. 
76 


The  Brook 

"There  must  be  a  farmhouse  somewhere  about. 
We'll  get  a  trap  and  drive.  They'll  be  frightened 
when  they  see  our  horses  come  in." 

He  picked  her  up  in  his  arms  without  waiting 
for  consent  and  began  to  walk.  The  girl  did  not 
speak  and  he  carried  her  in  silence.  After  a  little 
she  asked  to  be  put  down,  and  Striving  held  her 
by  the  shoulders  for  a  moment  to  steady  her,  for 
she  swayed  dizzily.  At  last  they  reached  the  road. 
Striving  drew  out  his  watch. 

"One  o'clock.  Where  are  we?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

The  girl  started. 

"Oh,  your  case!  I  forgot.  You'll  never  for- 
give me.  Go,  leave  me  now,  you  can  make  the 
two  o'clock  train." 

For  a  moment  Striving  did  not  speak.  He 
couldn't  leave  her  in  the  road  like  that. 

"Isn't  it  odd,  the  whole  thing,  the  way  we  met 
and  all?"  He  thought  he  saw  the  color  coming 
back  into  her  cheeks. 

The  girl  nodded. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  I  didn't  know  you  and  Jerry 
knew  each  other.  Jerry's  a  corker,  don't  you 
think?" 

"Oh  yes,  Jerry  and  I  are  old  friends." 

"  I'm  so  glad.  He'll  be  galloping  this  way  blow- 
77 


Hoof  Beats 

ing  his  horn  Hke  a  crazy  man  as  soon  as  he  sees  my 
horse.     We're  pals  you  know." 

Striving  felt  his  heart  choking  his  throat. 

"You  love  Jerry,"  he  asked  a  trifle  painfully, 
"and  Jerry  loves  you?" 

"Of  course." 

The  girl  looked  at  Striving.  Striving  was 
staring  ahead. 

"It's  always  like  that,  isn't  it?" 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  nothing." 

The  note  of  a  horn  carried  down  the  wind  and 
they  stopped  to  listen.  The  sound  of  a  running 
horse  was  quite  clear — the  rhythmic  beats  of  hoofs 
on  the  country  road. 

"Jerry!  He'll  be  so  relieved  to  find  me  all 
right,  you  know.  I'll  tell  him  what  you  did. 
He'll  never  forget  it." 

A  man  in  a  scarlet  coat  appeared  around  the 
corner  of  the  road  urging  a  big  half-bred  chestnut 
with  a  pair  of  long  hunting  spurs.  All  at  once  he 
saw  the  two  in  the  road  and  pulled  up  so  abruptly 
that  it  threw  the  horse  to  his  haunches  in  the 
road. 

"Phew!"  he  ejaculated,  mopped  his  forehead 
with  his  sleeve,  and  stuck  his  horn  into  its  leather 
case  on  the  saddle. 

"Phew!  Jane,  you've  scared  me  out  of  seven 
78 


The  Brook 

years'  growth.  Now,  what  the  devil  have  you 
been  up  to?  Soaking  wet,  too.  Been  in  Bab- 
bington  Brook,  I  bet.  Remember  what  I  told 
you  about  that?  By  Jove,  you  sha'n't  ride  any 
more  if  you  can't  behave.  I'll  take  your  horse 
away." 

The  color  was  back  in  the  girl's  cheeks.  She 
laughed. 

"Laugh,  you'll  see.  I'll  do  it."  The  Master 
shook  his  heavy  crop  at  her. 

Striving  stood  frowning.  The  girl  put  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"Don't  mind  him,  he's  always  cross  like  that 
when  he  finds  I'm  all  right.  It's  just  because 
he's  scared — isn't  it  Jerry?"  She  laughed  again. 
"Jerry,  this  gentleman  pulled  me  out  of  Babbing- 
ton  Brook.  We  rode  it,"  she  spoke  a  trifle 
proudly;  "that  is,  he  rode  it  and  I  followed  him 
where  the  fallen  tree  is. " 

"What?"  Jerry's  mouth  hung  open.  "You, 
too!     Well  I'll  bed ." 

The  Master's  horse  put  out  his  nose  and  the 
girl  stroked  it. 

"The  mare  got  over  clear,  but  Sportsman 
jumped  short  with  me  and  we  went  in  up  to  our 
necks.  He,"  she  indicated  Striving,  "dove  in 
after  me.  You'd  better  thank  him,  Jerry,  if  you 
care. " 

79 


Hoof  Beats 

Jerry  stuck  out  his  hand. 

"Fancy  you,  John,  riding  the  Brook  after  all 
these  years.  There's  no  use  trying  to  thank  you 
about  Jane,  she's  all  I've  got  in  the  world,  you 
know,  except  that  thoroughbred  mare  you  were 
on  and  two  half-bred  hunters. " 

A  ripple  of  laughter  followed. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  married,  Jerry." 

Striving  stared  down  the  road. 

The  girl  looked  up  puzzled. 

"Married.?"  the  Master  seemed  distressed  at 
the  thought .     ' '  Heaven  f orf end ! ' ' 

Striving  looked  up  at  him  quickly  and  then  at 
the  girl. 

"And  you're  not  going  to  be?" 

"  Never ! "  There  was  no  doubting  the  Master's 
decision.     It  was  convincing  to  say  the  least. 

The  girl  was  beginning  to  understand  and 
turned  her  head  away.  Her  shoulders  shook  and 
she  watched  Striving  out  of  the  corner  of  her  half- 
closed  eyes.     Striving  gave  up  in  despair. 

"Then  who,  I  demand  to  know,  is  this  young 
lady  described  as  Jane,  who  says  she  loves  you, 
and  who,  you  declare,  is  all  you  have  in  the  world?" 

Jerry  put  his  hand  over  his  mouth  and  guffawed. 

"That  young  person,"  he  cried,  pointing,  "is 
my  sister,  and  if  she  gets  into  any  more  trouble 
I'm  going  to  take  her  home  and  spank  her,  though 
80 


The  Brook 

why  you  didn't  know  seems  too  stupid  to  me  for 

j> 

He  jerked  his  reins  sharply.  His  horse  was 
nibbling  impatiently  at  the  toe  of  his  boot.  The 
girl  turned  and  controlled  her  laughter. 

"And  this  gentleman,  Jerry,  may  I  be  properly 
introduced,  since  he  saved  my  life  and  carried  me 
in  his  arms  for  a  mile?" 

"Eh?  You  don't  know,  either?  Well,  I  am 
hanged." 

Then  the  Master,  standing  up  in  his  stirrups, 
grew  sarcastically  fimny. 

"Allow  me,  Miss  Riker,  Mr.  Striving.  Mr. 
Striving,  Miss  Riker.  I  daresay  you  have  both 
changed.  You  haven't  seen  each  other  since  you 
used  to  slide  down  our  cellar  door  together  in  the 
old  town  house." 

The  girl  and  the  man  looked  at  each  other. 

"Jane!"  Striving  said,  and  his  voice  was  a 
little  husky. 

"John ! ''     The  girl  did  not  laugh. 

"Jane,  do  you  remember  the  chap  that  came 
between  us,  and — " 

The  girl  looked  up  at  the  Master. 

"  Cut  along,  Jerry,  quick,  and  get  the  trap.  I'm 
going  to  drive  John  to  the  station.  We  can  make 
the  two  o'clock  if  we  hurry. " 

Jerry  looked  at  them  both,  perplexed. 
81 


Hoof  Beats 

"Well,  I'm  hanged,"  he  murmured  to  himself 
and  cantered  briskly  down  the  road. 

Striving  took  off  his  coat  and  put  it  over  the 
other's  shoulders  in  spite  of  protest.  She  was 
shivering.     He  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"You  won't  be  angry,  will  you?"  she  asked. 
"Of  course,  you  must  get  there  in  time." 

"Angry,  of  course  not — not  with  you.  Why, 
think  of  it,  I  might  not  have  seen  you  at  all." 

The  girl  looked  away. 

"Perhaps,"  she  hesitated,  as  if  it  were  difficult 
to  say,  "perhaps  you'll  come  again  and  hunt  some 
day." 

Striving  brightened. 

"Of  course." 

He  did  not  release  her  hands. 

The  Master  was  coming  down  the  road  leading 
a  shaggy  farm  horse  attached  to  a  rickety  buggy. 

"Hello,"  he  shouted,  "jump  in,  you  two,  and 
drive  hard.  You  can  make  it.  Jane,  you've  got 
a  high  fever,  your  cheeks  are  red  as  poppies." 

The  girl  and  Striving  glanced  at  each  other, 
then  at  the  Master,  and  laughed  happily. 

"Oh!"  the  latter  intoned  knowingly,  "I  see!" 

The  girl  sprang  into  the  vehicle,  picked  up  the 
whip  and  the  lines.  Striving  followed  quickly. 
The  horse  started  and  the  Master  rode  alongside. 
82 


The  Brook 

*'Goodbye,"  he  said;  "daresay  you  won't  be 
back  now  for  another  five  years?" 

The  girl  shot  a  look  at  Striving  swiftly.  Their 
eyes  met  and  he  smiled. 

"Tomorrow's  Sunday,  you  know.  I  rather 
thought  I  might  stop  off  on  my  way  to — . " 

The  Master  regarded  his  sister  and  Striving  with 
an  expression  of  resignation  and  pulled  up  his 
horse  abruptly. 

He  was  left  in  a  cloud  of  dust  on  the  side  of  the 
road. 

"Well,  I'm  hangedy''  he  declared  audibly.  A 
ripple  of  laughter  was  his  reply. 


83 


THE  BISHOP  OF  BARCHESTER 

IT  ain't  always  easy  to  tell  a  gentleman,  sir, 
because  often  they  is  when  they  ain't.     And 
then,   again,   there's   no   mistakin'   it,   and 
that's  the  kind  the  capt'in  was." 
"Captain  who?"  I  asked,  tactlessly.     Judson 
regarded  me  with  an  air  of  astonishment  which 
put  me  conspicuously  in  a  class  by  myself. 

**Capt'in  Ponsonby,  sir!"  Judson's  manner 
informed  me  that  there  could  be  but  one  captain 
and  that  my  faux  pas  was  well-nigh  unpardonable. 
I  endeavored  to  redeem  my  fall  from  grace. 

*'0h,  of  course,  Captain  Ponsonby,"  I  nodded, 
knowingly,  "to  be  sure,  and  you  were  saying?" 
His  expression  was  that  of  one  not  to  be  easily 
gulled,  his  head  on  one  side — then,  satisfied  of  my 
good  faith,  he  scratched  a  match  on  the  seat  of  his 
trousers  and  puffed  at  his  little  stub  of  a  pipe. 

"The  capt'in,  sir,  as  everyone  knows" — he 
emphasized  the  last  words  a  trifle  for  my  benefit — 
"is  the  best  all-around  man  on  a  'orse  in  Hengland 
— or  hout  of  it"  he  added,  lest  the  desired  impres- 
sion be  insuflScient. 

84 


The  Bishop  of  Bar  Chester 

*'E  could  ride  a  kangaroo  over  a  six -bar  gate 
if  'e  chose,  sir,  and,  to  my  way  of  thinkin,'  what 
'e  did  was  'arder.  E's  the  quiet  sort,  you 
know,  as  doesn't  do  a  lot  o'  talkin',  but  when  'e 
wants  a  thing  'e  rides  for  it,  straight  as  the  crow 
flies,  and  'e  gets  it.  And  when  'e's  crossed,  sir, 
it's  stand  from  under — though  there  ain't  a  kinder 
more  respected  orfficer  in  the  whole  bloomin* 
British  harmy.  We  was  hout  in  Hindia,  sir, 
which  the  same  ain't  much  of  a  country,  with  its 
niggers  and  'eat,  at  a  big  garrison  town,  called 
Delhi.  There  was  plenty  goin'  on,  too,  considerin' 
the  distance  from  London,  what  with  'orse-racing, 
flirting  and  quarrels;  and  most  every^body,  orfficers 
and  Tommies  too,  were  busy,  at  one  or  the  other, 
or  all. 

"But  the  capt'in,  'e  knows  'is  way  about  a  bit, 
'aving  been  in  'ot  places  before,  and  so  now  and 
then,  'e  wins  a  race  or  two,  or,  perhaps,  drops  into 
the  club  for  tea.  And  that's  a  funny  thing,  too, 
for  a  man  that  'as  knocked  about  with  'orses — the 
capt'in  don't  drink  nothin'  but  tea.  The  way 
the  whole  thing  started,  they  tells  me,  was  at  the 
club,  two  days  since  the  Hon.  Major  Percy  Clinton 
came  to  join  the  Eightieth  'Orse.  The  capt'in 
is  sittin',  sippin'  'is  tea  as  cozy  and  'armless  as 
you  please,  with  the  noise  and  larfter  around  'im, 
when  in  comes  the  major  and  invites  the  capt'in 
85 


Hoof  Beats 

to  drink.  Now,  it's  a  well-known  thing  in  Delhi, 
and  'arf  of  Hengland  for  that,  that  the  capt'in 
don't  drink  'ard  liquor.  'E  'ad  broke  'is  favorite 
'orse's  neck,  so  the  story  goes,  one  day  on  Epsom 
Downs  when  'e'd  been  looking  on  the  bottle  and 
wasn't  fit  to  ride.  Well,  everybody  looks  around 
for  a  minute,  as  they  know  'e  don't  like  to  be 
arsked,  to  'ear  what  the  capt'in  will  say.  It 
seems  'e  'as  known  the  major  before,  and  I  fawncy 
don't  think  much  of  'is  style,  for  'e  looks  up  and 
says  with  a  smile: 

*'  *  Major,'  'e  says,  'you  know  very  well  I  don't 
drink;  won't  you  'ave  a  cup  o'  my  tea?'  The 
major  is  the  kind  I  spoke  of — them  that  is,  or 
ought  to  be,  but  ain't — though  the  Ponsonby 
name  is  a  thousand  years  older  than  Clinton,  even 
if  the  capt'in's  father  ain't  a  manufactured  lord. 
So  the  major,  who  is  a  sort  of  a  bounder  at  'eart, 
larfs  and  rings  for  the  boy. 

*'  'Get  me  a  man's  drink,  a  B.  and  S.,  and  leave 
the  capt'in  'is  tea.'  'E  says  it  narsty  like,  with 
a  mean,  sarcastic  air,  but  they  tell  me  the  capt'in 
only  chuckled. 

"  'What's  your  objection  to  tea,  major?'  'e  says 
it  provokingly  slow;  'hit's  a  'armless  beverage, 
takin'  it  all  in  all,'  and  'e  arf  closes  'is  eyes  at 
our  colonel,  who's  red  in  the  face  with  rage — 
'cause  you  see  it's  a  kind  of  an  insult  to  the  regi- 
86 


The  Bishop  of  Barchester 

ment,  too,  as  well  as  to  the  best  'orseman  in 
Hengland.  The  major,  who  rather  fancies  'imself 
as  a  rider,  don't  answer  the  question,  but  says: 

"  'See  'ere,  Capt'in  Ponsonby,  you  brag  of  *ow 
you  can  ride'  (and  that's  a  lie,  for  the  capt'in 
never  talks  'orse),  'but  I'll  lay  you  an  even  'undred 
pun  and  beat  you  four  and  a  'arf  miles  'cross- 
country on  anything,  over  anywhere  you  say.' 

"They  fixed  it  then  and  there,  with  the  others 
crowdin'  around,  and  wrote  out  the  major's  words. 
They  say  the  captin'  was  almighty  solemn  and 
then,  all  of  a  suddent,  'e  larfs.  Everyone  turns 
around  to  see  what  the  joke's  about,  for  they  know 
'is  sense  of  humor,  and  the  major  says : 

"  'Perhaps  the  tea  'as  gone  to  'is  'ead,'  but  the 
capt'in  just  roared  with  pleasure.  Gawd !  What 
a  sense  of  humor  the  capt'in  'ad !  Then  the  colo- 
nel— old  Kris,  the  Tommies  call  'im — bein'  a 
terrible  knowin'  one  'imself,  begins  to  larf  until  'e 
starts  chokin'and  they  'ave  to  'elp  'im  into  a  chair. 

"  'Lord  bless  me,  Cyril,  me  boy,'  'e  gasps,  'that's 
the  capt'in,  you  know — 'do  you  want  to  kill  me 
with  your  devilish  tricks?  What,  ho!'  And  'e 
begins  to  larf  again.  But  the  capt'in's  face  don't 
show  a  sign,  and  'e's  puffin'  a  cigarette.  'E 
squints  at  the  colonel  sharp-like  through  'iseye- 
glarss. 

"  'Colonel,'  'e  says,  'be  quiet,  sir,  or  you'll  pop 
87 


Hoof  Beats 

off  in  this  'eat  some  day  like  a  kiddy's  balloon' 
and  'e  takes  'im  under  the  arm,  and  the  others 
can  'ear  'em  go  out  o'  the  door,  the  colonel  still 
splutterin'  and  gaspin'  for  breath. 

"That's  the  way  I  'ears  it,  from  Dawson,  'ead 
man  at  the  bar,  and  'e  says  that  'e  and  five  others 
keeps  busy  all  night  servin'  drinks  and  that  ten 
thousand  rupees  were  writ  in  the  book,  on  the  race 
to  follow.  It's  to  be  run  in  a  week — and  this  is 
Saturday  night — over  the  old  Delhi  steeplechase 
course — four  mile  and  a  'arf — think  o'  that !  They 
makes  it  that  long,  so's  there's  no  chance  for  a 
fluke,  and  the  best  'un  must  win  in  the  end. 

"Now,  the  capt'in's  got  a  couple  o'  good  'uns 
that  cawn't  be  matched  near  or  far,  as  no  one 
knows  better  than  me,  sir,  as  often  sleeps  in  their 
stalls,  and  tended  'em  like  children  on  the  voyage 
from  Liverpool.  'E's  also  got  one  other  such  as  no 
one  ever  saw,  that  the  capt'in  takes  more  pride  in 
than  'e  does  the  cross  'e  sometimes  wears  when 
we're  reviewed  by'is  Royal  Majesty  or  'is  'Ighness, 
the  Prince  of  Wales.  This  other,  I  own  it,  is  a 
hanimal  that's  'ard  to  beat,  for  'e'd  do  'is  slowest 
quarter  in  a  bit  under  twenty-six.  'E's  out  of  a 
famous  English  racing  mare  by  a  fresh  little 
Arabian  donkey  that  prides  'isself,  too,  on  'is 
forefathers  and  'is  dead-game  sportin'  blood. 
Yet,  it's  a  mule,  sir,  a  sixteen-'and  mule  as  white 
88 


The  Bishop  of  Barchester 

as  snow,  with  ears  that  would  reach  from  Charing 
Cross  to  the  Marble  Arch — and  a  tail  like  a 
feather  duster — just  a  bunch  of  'airs  on  the  end. 
"But  jump,  sir?  Oh,  I  'ave  to  admit  it,  though 
it  hurts,  that's  what  it  does — 'e  once  beat  our  own 
Lady  Godiva,  Gawd  bless  'er — that's  the  capt'in's 
thoroughbred  mare.  'E  beat  'er  two  lengths  from 
take-off  to  landing,  at  every  jump  in  the  field,  and 
led  'er  'ome  by  a  'ead,  sir,  at  the  last  quarter, 
though,  of  course,  the  mare  won  out  in  the  end. 
Think  of  it,  sir,  an  old  racing  man  like  me — 'aving 
to  'andle  a  mule,  and  one  whose  name  was  My 
Lord  the  Bishop  of  Barchester — think  o'  that  for 
the  name  of  a  mule.  Oh,  the  capt'in  'as  a  'orrible 
sense  o'  humor  when  anyone  treads  on  'is  toes. 
I  don't  know  what  the  Bishop  o'  Barchester  done, 
but  it's  certain  'e  would  ha'  near  dropped  dead  if 
e'd  ever  read  the  Pink  'Un  or  the  Delhi  Sporting 
News,  or  see  'is  twin,  the  mule.  Well,  I'm  stand- 
in'  in  the  stable  doorway  when  I  see  the  colonel 
and  the  capt'in  comin',both  talkin'  as  'ard  as  they 
can.  *Judson,'  the  capt'in  says,  when  'e's  near 
me,  'bring  out  My  Lord  the  Bishop  of  Barchester,' 
then  'e  fits  'is  glarss  in  'is  eye,  and  hexamines  that 
mule  inside  out,  and  rubs  'is  legs  'ere  and  there. 
Then  'e  thumps  'im  in  the  belly  and  the  Bishop 
swells  up  fit  to  bust,  and  'e  gives  'is  'orful  braying 
sound  that's  scarin',  that's  what  hit  is.  The 
89 


Hoof  Beats 

capt'in  shoots  'is  eye-glarss,  and  that  in  itself  is 
something  to  see,  and  then  'e  smiles  at  the  colonel, 
who's  grabbed  'old  of  the  side  of  the  stable  when 
'e  'ears  the  frightful  huproar. 

'*  'It's  all  right,  sir,'  says  the  capt'in;  "is  wind 
is  as  sound  as  a  sovereign  and  'e  could  gallop 
another  mile  if  'e  chose.'  The  colonel  mops  'is 
forehead. 

"  'I'll  take  your  word  for  it,'  'e  says,  'only  let 
me  know  before,  and  when  you're  goin'  to  test 
'im    again.' 

"From  then  on  I  knows  my  business.  No  one's 
to  'ear  a  word  o'  it,  but  I'm  to  'ave  'is  'Oliness 
ready  and  fit  to  win.  Somehow  the  Bishop  knows 
I  don't  like  him,  though  I  cawn't  say  as  who 
started  the  fuss,  but  'e  certainly  makes  life  difficult 
in  the  early  mornin'  canters.  First,  'e  won't  let 
me  come  near  'im,  then  arfter  'e  will,  but  just  as 
some  lad  is  about  to  give  me  a  leg  up,  'e  lets  out 
'is  orful  roar.  I've  'andled  some  narsty  mean 
'orses  and  a  couple  of  man-killers,  too,  but,  sir, 
they  was  babes  in  arms  and  little  Moses  compared 
to  this  godly  mule.  Most  'orses  is  fools,  sir, 
there's  no  denyin'  that,  even  me  that  loves  'em 
cawn't.  But  this  mule,  why  'e  thinks  like  the 
rest  of  us,  only  a  damn  sight  quicker,  beggin'  your 
pardon,  sir.  'E's  got  legs  longer  than  any  'orse 
I  ever  see  and  'e  jumps  in  a  free-and-easy  style — 
90 


The  Bishop  of  Barchester 

not  like  the  average  army  mule  that  pops  over  a 
fence  as  a  cow  breaks  out  of  a  pasture — but  flies 
'em  like  any  first-clarss  'orse  which  'as  done  'is 
mile  at  Newmarket.  One  mornin',  the  day  before 
the  race,  I'm  schoolin'  'im  over  some  'urdles,  when 
'e  gives  me  a  narsty  spill — (I  knows,  o'  course,  'e 
done  it  on  purpose  from  the  way  'e  stopped  and 
looked) — then  'e  grabs  me  by  the  seat  of  the 
breeches,  shakes  me  like  a  dog  would,  and  brays 
'til  I  nearly  goes  mad.  'E  knows  full  well  I 
won't  let  the  boy  club  'im,  for  fear  o'  'urtin'  our 
chawnces.  Oh,  the  Bishop,  'e  'ad  a  keen  sense  o' 
humor,  too,  'e  'ad,  but  'e  knows  just  'ow  far  'e  can 
go,  and  'e  plays  no  games  on  the  capt'in,  but  acts 
like  Mary's  lamb.  To  see  'im  nosin'  the  capt'in's 
pockets  for  sugar,  or  beggin'  a  apple,  perhaps,  and 
seemin'  that  righteously  good,  used  to  make  me 
sick  to  my  stummick  arfter  'e'd  treated  me  so. 
But  I'm  gettin'  behind  in  my  story  and  that's 
what  you're  waitin'  to  'ear. 

*Tt's  a  fair,  bright  day  and  the  paddock  and 
grand  stand  is  crowded.  There's  a  lot  o'  good 
pony  races,  too,  just  to  fill  out  the  card,  but  o' 
course  everyone's  on  hedge  for  the  big  match 
between  the  Hon.  Percy  Clinton  o'  'is  Majesty's 
Eightieth  'Orse,  and  Capt'in  Cyril  Ponsonby,  V. 
C,  o'  'is  Majesty's  Own  Black  Watch.  And  it's 
not  a  bad  appearance  the  people  made  that  day 
91 


Hoof  Beats 

for  such  a  God-forsaken  place  like  that  *ot  and 
'eathenish  land.  The  ladies  looked  pretty,  too, 
and  the  orflScers  giv'  the  scene  a  bit  o'  dash  and 
smartness  in  their  white  uniforms  and  their  silken 
racing  colors.  It  seemed  like  a  bit  o'  old  Hen- 
gland,  sir,  everybody  'avin*  turned  out  to  see  the 
sport,  and  the  Tommies  in  the  rival  regiments 
began  passing  scurrilous  remarks  good-humoredly 
to  each  other  the  minute  they  reached  the  field. 
The  capt'in  'adn't  told  'ardly  a  soul  which  'orse 
*e  meant  to  race  and  'e  'ad  that  right  under  the 
agreement  they  made.  But,  somehow,  it  'ad 
leaked  out,  or  some  pry  in'  chap  'ad  seen  me  school- 
in'  the  Bishop  o'  a  four  a  clock  in  the  mornin'. 
Now,  the  major  was  no  yearling,  and  'e  'ad  some 
good  'orses,  too,  though  in  course  'e  wasn't  the 
mechanic  on  a  'orse  that  the  capt'in  was,  as  could 
be  seen  by  the  prices  quoted.  When  the  word 
gets  out  in  the  paddock  that  the  capt'in  intends  to 
beat  the  major  with  a  mule,  you  should  'a'  seen 
the  people  runnin'  to  'edge  a  bit,  in  order  to  save 
their  pay. 

"But  most  'o  the  crowd  didn't  know  a  thing 
about  it,  and  just  sat  impatiently  waitin'  to  see 
the  major  ride  out  on  'is  chestnut  mare,  the  best 
'un  'e  'ad,  and  to  see  if  the  capt'in  would  race  the 
Lady  Godiva  or  the  Viceroy.  The  bugle  sounds 
and  everybody  leans  forward  watching  the  pad- 
92 


The  Bishop  of  B archest er 

dock  gate.  And  sure  enough,  out  comes  the  major 
ridin'  'is  little  chestnut  bit  o'  all-right,  'er  stepping 
as  light  and  pretty  under  'im  as  a  piece  o'  cork  in  a 
choppy  sea.  Then  there  is  some  thin'  o'  a  wait,  so 
they  tells  me,  as  if  Hi  didn't  know  better  than 
anyone  else — the  delay  resultin'  from  'is  'Oliness 
'avin  'ooked  'is  teeth  around  my  thumb  as  I'm 
spongin'  out  'is  mouth.  Then  the  capt'in  gets 
provoked  and  kicks  him  with  the  spurs — the 
Bishop  gives  a  buck- jump,  lets  out  one  o'  them 
'orrifying  sounds,  and  goes  boundin'  through  the 
gate  and  up  onto  the  turf.  One  woman  fainted, 
so  the  colonel  says  afterward,  though  'e's  apt  to 
hexaggerate,  but  Hi  knows  the  band  stopped 
playing  right  in  the  middle  o'  "God  Save  the 
Queen,"  and  leaned  over  the  railin'  to  see  what 
'ad  'appened,  for  I  was  there  and  sees  them. 
Then  people  just  sat  down  wherever  they  'appened 
to  be,  and  'eld  their  sides,  near  bustin'  themselves 
with  larfter.  I  would  ha'  almost  felt  sorry  for 
the  major  if  'e  'adn't  been  so  ugly.  Oh,  the  cap- 
tin's  got  a  'orrible  sense  o'  humor  when  'e's  'urt. 

**And  maybe  that  mule  didn't  know,  sir?  Oh, 
no,  'e  didn't  know  nothink,  'e  didn't,  so  white  and 
innocent  lookin' !  'E  was  just  a  bit  o'  a  Shetland 
pony,  puUin'  the  nussmaid  and  kiddies  about  in 
the  park,  'e  was.  Why,  the  way  that  mule  carried 
on  was  frightenin'.     Everytime  the  starter,  who's 


Hoof  Beats 

gettin'  more  and  more  'ighsterical  and  wipin'  the 
tears  out  o'  'is  eyes,  raises  the  flag  ready  to  start 
'em  the  Bishop  just  guffaws.  At  last,  everybody 
sees  the  capt'in,  who  'asn't  cracked  a  smile,  pick 
up  'is  reins,  clap  'is  knees  a  little  tighter,  and  'ears 
'im  call  out :  'All  ready,  major?'  The  major  don't 
answer,  bein'  far  too  angry,  an'  busy  with  keepin' 
'is  'orse  under  'im  at  all,  but  the  starter  drops  the 
flag  with  a  shout  and  they're  hoff. 

"The  people  ain't  larfin'  none  now.  There's 
rupees  up,  an'  reputations,  because  it's  easy  to  see 
that  if  the  capt'in  beats  the  major,  'e,  the  major's, 
got  to  get  'is  transfer.  'E  couldn't  stand  it  in 
Delhi.  It  ain't  like  hold  Hengland.  It  ain't 
like  anything  but  Delhi,  where  it's  'ot  as  'ell  most 
o'  the  time,  and  people  act  different  from  the  way 
they  do  at  'ome.  They  ain't  got  the  patience,  an' 
I've  seen  a  couple  o'  friends  fight  like  tarriers  over 
nothing — just  the  orful  'eat.  And  everyone 
knows,  too,  that  if  the  major  'appens  to  beat  the 
capt'in,  'e's  got  to  keep  'im  beat,  and  that's 
somethink  no  man  can  do. 

'Tt's  a  heart-breaking  pace  they  makes  it,  with 
the  major  in  front  goin'  steady,  and  the  Bishop 
fightin'  for  'is  head  like  some  hold  steeplechase 
crack,  a  dozen  yards  to  the  rear.  Personally  I 
'ates  'im — that  mule.  I  never  'andled  a  meaner, 
narstier  brute  in  my  life,  an'  'e  don't  know  what 
94 


.    ^^,  -.%..  f  J.l,-' 


The  Bishop  of  Barchester 

gratitude  means,  but  I  'as  to  admire  'im  when  'e 
clears  the  water.  'E  looks  like  'e's  goin'  to  a  fire, 
the  way  'e  skims  the  top  o'  the  brush  without  an 
inch  to  spare  and  lands  runnin'  three  feet  the 
other  side  o'  the  ditch.  The  best  timber-topper 
in  Hengiand  couldn't  'a'done  it  prettier.  Oh, 
it's  a  pictur',  it  is,  Hi  grant  you,  sir. 

"  'E's  easy  to  follow  without  glarsses,  'e's  so 
white  and  pure-looking,  a  poundin'  on  back  o'  the 
major,  with  the  capt'in  balancin'  'is  'undred  and 
thirty  pounds  as  quiet  asamouse,  and  never  raisin' 
a  finger.  You  can  understand  what  it  means  to 
Delhi,  that  must  'ave  its  excitement  now  and  then 
— just  to  keep  body  and  soul  together — so  many 
thousand  miles  from  'ome.  I  ain't  afraid  the 
Bishop  ca^Ti't  stand  it,  either,  for  a  mule  'as  got 
more  lives  than  a  cat,  but  I  thinks  that  if  the 
major's  chestnut  leads  them  into  the  stretch, 
she'll  win  out  with  'er  wonderful  burst  o'  speed. 
And  that's  what  the  crowd  thinks,  too,  for  when- 
ever the  capt'in  passes  them  they  yell  out  for  'im 
to  close  up  and  get  a  lead  on  the  mare.  But  'e, 
the  capt'in,  takes  'is  borders  from  nobody,  and 
even  the  colonel,  old  Kris,  often  arsks  'is  advice — 
so  'e  and  the  mule  keeps  a-pluggin'  just  as  'appy  as 
ever  you  please.  You  can  see  it  makes  the  major 
nervous,  and,  bless  you,  why  wouldn't  it,  to  'ave 
a  sixteen-'and  mule  and  the  capt'in  'arf  a  length 
95 


Hoof  Beats 

from  your  boot.  But  it  cawn't  go  on  forever  and 
the  capt'in  bides  'is  time.  Then  'e  jabs  'ome  the 
spurs  and  goes  'ard  to  the  whip,when  they're  arf 
a  mile  from  the  judges.  The  Bishop  gives  one 
switch  to  'is  almighty  neglected  tail  and  responds 
like  a  bloomin'  hexpress  train,  never  touchin' 
'is  'oofs  to  the  ground.  'E  looks  like  a  streak 
painted  along  the  rail  and  'e  comes  rompin'  under 
the  wire  fully  six  lengths  ahead. 

"Then  I  leads  'im  back  so  that  th'  capt'in  can 
weigh  in.  Gawd !  can  I  ever  forget  it,  that  'orrible 
din  in  my  ears.  'E  just  roars  with  indecent 
delight  and  brays  until  I  thought  I'd  kill  'im.  I 
knew  my  life  was  a  failure  if  I  'ad  to  'andle  that 
mule  arfter  'e'd  won  the  race.  'E  acted  like  a 
blarsted  fiend,  'e  did,  with  'is  jumps  and  kicks 
in  the  air. 

"The  crowd  all  swarmed  around  'im,  the  people 
'arf  foolish  with  joy.  Someone  offered  to  buy  'im 
and  I  caught  the  capt'in's  heye,  but  'e  only  smiles 
and  pats  'im.  The  major  somehow  disappears, 
though  the  crowd  keeps  callin'  'is  name,  until  the 
capt'in  raises  'is  'and,  'That's  enough,'  he  says, 
^that'll  do.' 

"Delhi  near  went  mad  that  night  and  the  men 

in  the  Black  Watch  fought  the  men  in  the  other 

'til  mornin',  in  places,  they  say.     I  knows  I  licked 

one  bloomin'  Tommy  for  callin'  the  Bishop  o* 

96 


The  Bishop  of  Barchester 

Barchester  'a  white-'aired  billy  goat,'  though 
'Eaven  knows  'e's  that  and  worse.  Personally 
I  stayed  hout  all  night,  that  night.  I  didn't  dare 
to  go  'ome,  sir,  with  the  Bishop  hownin'  the  stable, 
and  brayin'  fit  to  kill.  Oh,  the  major?  'E  stuck 
it  hout  a  week,  but  'e  couldn't  stand  it  longer,  for 
every  time  'e  meets  a  chap  'e  gets  arsked  to  a  cup 
of  tea.  Why,  they  talk  about  it  now,  sir,  all 
through  'is  Majesty's  service,  though  it  'appened 
some  years  ago,  'ow  the  capt'in  beat  the  major  on 
a  bloomin'  blarsted  mule." 


97 


MR.  LEFFINGTON  FEELS  INSPIRED 


QUOTED  Mr.  Leffington: 
"One  white  foot,  buy  a  horse;  two 
white  feet,  try  a  horse;  three  white 
feet,  sell  a  horse;  four  white  feet  and 
a  white  nose,  cut  off  his  head  and 
throw  him  to  the  crows." 

"So  you  think  Gwendolyn's  husband  has  four 
white  feet  and  a  white  nose, — eh  Margaret?" 

Mrs.  Leffington  put  down  her  pen,  looked  over 
her  shoulder  at  her  husband  and  frowned  in 
exasperation. 

"Richard  I  wish  you  would  scrape  your  boots 
outside  and  not  track  that  red  mud  all  through  the 
hall  and  living  room,  besides  too,  your  spurs  cut 
the  rugs.  It's  just  as  easy  to  hang  them  out  on 
the  hat -rack  or  give  them  to  Ruggles  to  polish." 

Mr.  Leffington  uncrossed  his  legs  and  pushed 
surreptitiously  under  the  rug  with  the  toe  of  his 
left  boot,  several  pieces  of  caked  mud. 

"I'll  try  to  remember,  my  dear,"  he  said,  smiling 
good-naturedly  behind  her  back  with  magnani- 


Mr,  Leffington  Feels  Inspired 

mous  resolution,  remembering  that  all  women 
were  fussy  about  the  house  and  had  to  be  humored, 
— "but  what  about  Gwendolyn's  husband,  why 
are  you  so  down  on  him?" 

"Gwen's  a  dear  girl,"  Mrs.  Leffington  replied 
irrelevantly  poising  her  pen  for  a  moment  in 
search  of  a  word. 

*'She  came  high  for  John,"  Mr.  Leffington 
mused,rubbing  his  boots  together  absent-mindedly 
into  a  cloud  of  yellow  dust. 

"You  know  I  didn't  mean  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Leffington  tormented  into  putting  her  pen  down 
altogether  and  turning  around  to  face  him. 
"Richard,  you  have  a  horrible  habit  of  construing 
people's  words  into  something  they  don't  mean  at 
all.  What  I  really  meant,  was  that  Gwen  is  the 
sweetest,  dearest,  most  lovable  girl  in  the  world, 
and  if  she  couldn't  live  with  John  Rexford,  then 
its  only  John  Rexford's  fault.  I  was  just  writing 
her  when  you  interrupted  me,"  Mrs.  Leffington 
continued,  pausing  a  moment  for  the  desired 
effect,  and  her  husband  grinned  appreciatively, 
"to  ask  if  she  would  come  down  Sunday  and  spend 
the  week  but  I  won't  of  course  if  you're  not  going 
to  be  nice  and  make  her  have  the  loveliest  time  we 
are  able.  There  will  be  hunting  twice,  at  least, 
on  Monday  and  Wednesday,  and  perhaps  again 

99 


Hoof  Beats 

later  during  the  week,  so  that  there  will  be  plenty 
for  her  to  do." 

"And  for  the  horses,"  Mr.  Leffington  added. 
"For  a  little  woman,  Gwen  is  the  hardest  rider  I 
ever, — " 

"Richard!"  Mrs.  Leffington  stopped  him  sharp- 

ly- 

"Oh,  all  right  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Leffington 
indifferently  getting  up,  letting  out  another  hole 
in  his  belt  and  stretching  his  long  arms  over  his 
head,  "I  guess  the  horses  can  stand  it,  only  the 
last  time  you  remember,  when  Gwen  was  here, 
Aviator  threw  a  curb,  Also-Ran  slipped  his  hip, 
and  — but  never  mind.  Gwen  can  ride  the  Rocket 
until  he  can't  rocket  any  more  and  then  she  can 
have  old  Nut-Cracker  and  I  fancy  even  Gwen 
can't  make  Nut-Cracker  go  any  faster  or  jump  any 
bigger  than  he  wants  to.  And  if  she  can,  God 
bless  her  is  all  I  say.  Personally  you  know  1  like 
Gwen.  She's  a  nice  sweet  sort  of  girl,  and  all  that 
as  you  say,  even  if  she  does  lack  training,  but  I'm 
prejudiced  of  course,  because  there's  John,  that 
I've  known  and  liked  for  ever  so  long.  They 
don't  come  much  better  than  John,  and  he's  got 
the  firmest  seat  and  the  lightest  hands  of  any  man 
in  this  country." 

"Perhaps  those  qualifications  do  not  necessarily 
constitute  a  good  husband,"  Mrs.  Leffington  put 
100 


Mr.  Leffington  Feels  Inspired 

in  somewhat  sarcastically,  turning  up  her  nose 
ever  so  slightly.  "Besides  he  can't  ride  any 
better  than  you  can." 

Mr.  Leffington  smiled,  pleased  in  spite  of  him- 
self, at  his  wife's  partisanship,  and  ignored  the 
first  part  of  her  remark  completely. 

"Do  you  remember,  Margaret,  the  time  the 
hounds  killed  in  Bagby's  barnyard.  That  was 
where  John  first  met  Gwen,  two  years  ago 
last  Thanksgiving;  she  followed  him  over  the 
barnyard  fence,  a  mere  five  feet  or  so  —  as 
you  happen  to  know.  The  rest  came  in  by 
the  gate, — which  was  the  proper  way  of  course, 
— but  you  should  have  seen  how  John  looked 
at  Gwen  when  he  lifted  her  out  of  the  saddle, 
and  the  way  her  eyes  never  left  his.  That 
was  love  at  first  sight  all  right.  Damned 
shame  I  say,  whatever  the  trouble  is."  And  Mr. 
Leffington  having  delivered  himself  of  this  unusual 
bit  of  sentimentalism  to  the  astonishment  of  his 
wife,  took  the  letter  she  held  out  to  him  for  mail- 
ing and  left  the  room.  Once  he  paused  in  the  hall 
as  if  in  doubt,  started  on,  then  paused  again. 
Finally  with  the  determined  air  of  one  who  screws 
up  his  courage  with,  'who's  afraid, — not  I',  he 
proceeded  with  firm  tread  out  to  the  stable.  He 
had  neglected  to  tell  Mrs.  Leffington  that  John 
Rexford  would  be  staying  all  the  next  week  at  the 
101 


HooJ  Beats 

club  on  his  invitation  and  hunting  with  the 
Harkaway  pack,  for  which  he,  Richard  Leffington, 
had  the  honor  to  carry  the  horn. 

The  following  Sunday  morning  just  before  the 
church  hour,  Mr.  Leffington  called  out  to  the 
stable  for  the  boys  to  put  the  Nut-Cracker  into 
the  yellow-wheeled  break-cart  and  secretly  con- 
gratulated himself  that  Gwen  had  chosen  so 
propitious  a  time  to  arrive  as  Sunday  morning. 
Usually  at  this  hour  Mr.  Leffington  was  conscript- 
ed to  drive  Mrs.  Leffington  to  church, which, to  Mr. 
Leffington's  fancy,  lurked  in  sad  and  everlasting 
sorrow  five  or  six  miles  down  the  hardest  pike  in 
the  state.  To  be  sure  Mrs.  Leffington  often  let 
Mr.  Leffington  come  out  before  the  sermon,  but 
not  always,  and  so  Mr.  Leffington's  soul  was  this 
Sunday  morning  unaccustomedly  joyful  and  he 
looked  forward  to  seeing  Gwen  with  a  pleasure 
which  a  few  days  before  he  would  have  believed 
impossible.  Mrs.  Leffington  in  the  meantime 
had  remained  home  from  church,  her  great  sacri- 
fice somewhat  ameliorated  however  by  the  pleas- 
ant anticipation  with  which  one  woman  looks 
forward  to  that  intimate  conversation  with  an- 
other, who  has  recently  been  made  supremely 
happy  or  unutterably  miserable,  by  a  man. 

As  Mr.  Leffington  drove  gaily  out  of  the  stable 
yard  and  playfully  welted  the  Nut-Cracker  with 
102 


Mr.  Leffington  Feels  Inspired 

the  lash  of  his  whip,  he  felt  suddenly  compelled 
to  throw  himself  quickly  to  one  side  in  order  to 
avoid  two  iron  shod  heels  that  shot  unpleasantly 
near  his  head.  Mr.  Leffington  always  said  that 
the  Nut-Cracker  had  a  keener  sense  of  humor  than 
any  horse  he  had  ever  owned  and  infinitely  more 
human  than  the  second  man.  So  after  the  Nut- 
Cracker  had  had  his  little  joke,  passed  through  a 
series  of  unlisted  gaits,  and  finally  settled  down  to 
his  usual  long  swinging  trot,  Mr.  Leffington  better 
able  then  to  sit  in  the  cart  without  holding  on  by 
both  hands,  had  an  opportunity  to  light  his  pipe 
and  to  think.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  former  was  a 
much  easier  and  more  usual  pastime  than  the 
latter,  although  his  friends  often  said  that  when 
Richard  Leffington  did  really  choose  to  concen- 
trate and  use  his  mind  for  anything  but  killing 
foxes,  he  could  cause  more  trouble  in  five  minutes 
than  any  other  man  in  the  state. 

What  weighed  most  on  Mr.  Leffington's  mind 
this  Sunday  morning  on  his  way  to  the  station, 
a  mile  or  two  down  the  macadam  pike,  was  the 
unwelcome  recollection  that  he  had  advised  John 
Rexford  to  take  the  ten  o'clock  train,  which  was 
the  same  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  meet.  He  had 
little  fear  that  Gwen  and  John  would  meet  on  the 
train  as  probably  John  would  sit  in  the  smoker 
reading  the  Sunday  comic  sheets,  his  feet  on  the 
103 


Hoof  Beats 

seat  in  front  of  him,  but  when  the  train  stopped  at 
Harkaway,  it  was  odds  on  that  they  would  be  the 
only  two  to  get  off  the  train  except  the  conductor 
who  didn't  really  count  of  course.  Therefore 
as  Mr.  LeflBngton  drove  down  the  leisurely  descent 
of  the  last  hill,  and  the  station  lay  before  him  grim 
and  forbidding  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  a  kind 
of  mental  nervousness  took  possession  of  him 
which  he  felt  quite  unable  to  throw  off.  At  first 
it  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  wait  innocently 
in  the  cart  behind  the  station  and  at  least  avoid 
anything  approaching  a  scene,  which  to  Mr. 
Leffington  was  a  worse  prospect  than  death  itself, 
but  somehow  this  plan  seemed  to  have  points  of 
strategic  weakness,  and  so  when  the  whistle  of  the 
engine  was  finally  borne  crisply  down  the  wind 
from  the  station  bej^ond,  it  found  Mr.  Leffington 
shifting  his  feet  nervously,  and  lighting  and  re- 
lighting his  pipe,  on  the  platform  near  the  track. 
The  Nut-Cracker  too  seemed  nervous  and  uneasy 
upon  hearing  the  on-coming  whistle  of  the  train, 
but  to  anyone  who  knew  him,  this  was  but  one  of 
his  many  poses,  and  while  he  trembled  in  the 
shafts  and  snorted  in  the  most  approved  thorough- 
bred fashion,  he  stood  unhitched  and  unnoticed. 

When  the  train  finally  rumbled  up  to  the  station 
and  stopped,  the  first  person  Mr.  Leffington  saw 
was  John  Rexford  on  the  steps  of  the  smoker  and 
104 


Mr.  Leffington  Feels  Inspired 

in  an  instant  Mr.  Leffington  was  shaking  his  hand 
and  dragging  him  towards  the  waiting  room. 
Having  once  deposited  him  there  and  told  him  to 
wait,  he  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  reached 
the  platform  just  in  time  to  escort  Gwen  around 
the  corner  of  the  station,  install  her  in  the  break- 
cart,  spring  in  himself,  and  urge  the  not  unwilling 
Nut-Cracker  in  the  direction  of  home  at  a  smart 
canter. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  Gwen  kept  up  a  spright- 
ly conversation  and  seemed  peculiarly  flushed  and 
talkative,  Mr.  Leffington  could  not  rid  his  imagi- 
nation of  the  picture  of  John  Rexford,  sitting  for 
the  next  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  the  cold 
waiting  room  at  Harkaway  with  only  the  half- 
witted baggage  man  for  company. 

He  remembered  now  for  the  first  time  that  John 
had  a  very  nasty  temper  when  sufficiently  aroused 
and  he  looked  at  Gwen  with  a  feeling  something 
akin  to  sympathetic  fellowship,  and  his  replies 
were  absent-mindedly  brief  and  thoughtful. 

In  the  driveway  before  the  house  he  left  Gwen 
and  Mrs.  Leffington  locked  in  an  affectionate 
embrace,  which  seemed  to  fairly  cry  out  that  all 
men  w^ere  bad,  and  standing  up  in  the  cart  tanned 
the  Nut-Cracker  into  a  healthy  sweat,  until  the 
latter  had  entered  so  much  into  the  spirit  of  the 
game  that  he  galloped  one  of  the  fastest  quarters 
105 


Hoof  Beats 

of  a  mile  he  had  ever  done, — past  the  station, — 
where  Rexford  stood  on  the  platform  roaring  with 
laughter  at  Leffington's  apparent  discomfiture. 
But  after  the  Nut-Cracker  considered  that  the 
joke  had  gone  far  enough, — it  was  in  reality  a 
heavy  toll  gate  that  decided  him, — he  allowed  Mr. 
Leffington  to  drive  him  back  to  the  station  where 
they  picked  up  John  Rexford  and  carried  him  off 
to  the  clul),  while  Mr.  Leffington  tried  to  explain 
his  sudden  desertion  of  his  friend,  so  often  and  so 
vociferously,  that  Rexford  immediately  grew 
suspicious  and  regarded  him  with  a  cold  and 
disconcerting  eye. 

On  the  drive  home  alone  from  the  club,  Mr. 
Leffington  had  an  opportunity  to  carefully  con- 
sider the  events  of  the  day,  and  decided  that  the 
plot  had  thickened  already  more  than  he  had 
bargained  for,  and  that  in  the  role  of  Cupid  he  was 
getting  considerably  out  of  his  depth.  But  as 
moments  of  inspiration  come  to  even  the  least  of 
us,  so  was  Mr.  Leffington  illumined  and  in  spite 
of  the  lesson  he  had  so  lately  experienced  he 
slapped  his  leg  in  his  enthusiasm  and  exclaimed 
aloud,  which  made  the  Nut-Cracker,  mistaking 
it  for  a  command,  jump  violently,  nearly  putting 
Mr.  Leffington  over  the  back  of  the  cart,  and  go 
trotting  off  down  the  road. 

In  the  meantime,  while  Mr.  Leffington  had 
106 


Mr.  Leffington  Feels  Inspired 

been  driving  the  Nut-Cracker  more  or  less  unin- 
tentionally up  and  down  the  pike,  Mrs.  Rexford 
had  had  a  very  good  cry  in  Mrs.  Leffington's 
room,  in  which  Mrs.  Leffington  had  joined  her, 
and  by  the  time  he  reached  home,  both  women 
were  in  a  softened  and  communicative  mood.  Of 
course  John  Rexford 's  name  went  unmentioned 
whenever  Mr.  Leffington  was  present,  as  by 
general  consent,  though  Mrs.  Leffington  by 
now  had  heard  everything  John  Rexford  had 
done  since  the  time  he  first  met  Gwendolyn,  and 
all  the  things  good  and  bad,  his  mother  had  told 
her  about  him  when  he  was  a  boy.  In  the  first 
place  Mrs.  Rexford  said  John  had  humiliated  her 
before  all  the  stable,  by  peremptorily  forbidding 
her  to  jump  her  newest  hunter  over  the  paddock 
gate.  And  one  evening  he  had  actually  not  come 
home  for  dinner  without  even  telephoning  and 
there  were  other  things, — but  enough, — Mrs. 
Rexford  wept  copiously  on  Mrs.  Leffington's 
sympathetic  shoulder. 

Mr.  Leffington's  hard-bitten  look  and  six  feet 
of  bone  and  sinew  made  a  very  striking  figure  in  a 
pink  coat,  white  breeches  and  topboots,  and  for 
the  time  being  he  exercised  very  much  the  same 
amount  of  power,  and  commanded  as  much  respect 
as  the  captain  of  a  ship.  Even  Mrs.  Leffington 
then  never  dared  use  quite  the  same  tone  as  she 
107 


Hooj  Beats 

affected  when  Mr.  Leflfington  once  removed  his 
badge  of  office.  There  was  not  a  better  M.  F.  H. 
in  the  state,  or  a  man  who  knew  his  country  half 
so  well,  and  Mr.  Leffington  being  in  a  sense  subtly, 
yet  modestly  aware  of  the  fact,  generally,  on  days 
of  hunting  appointments,  wore  his  full  regalia  until 
it  was  time  for  bed.  It  was  not  so  much  that  Mr. 
Leffington  desired  to  flount  his  temporary  superi- 
ority over  Mrs.  Leffington  upon  these  occasions, 
as  that  he  wished  to  bring  her  to  a  realization,  two 
or  three  times  every  week,  that  he,  Richard 
Leffington,  was  still  a  man,  even  though  he  was 
her  husband.  And  secretly  of  course,  Mrs. 
Leffington  was  fatuously  proud  of  him  and  adoring 
and  Mr.  Leffington  being  subtly  aware  of  this, 
let  her  run  the  house,  and  him,  pretty  much  as 
she  pleased. 

And  so  on  Monday  morning  very  early,  just 
after  the  first  gray  light  had  come,  Mr.  Leffington 
was  up,  scrupulously  dressed,  fussing  nervously 
about  in  the  stable,  and  girting  up  the  Nut-Crack- 
er who  swelled  himself  unconscionably,  while  Mrs. 
Leffington  and  Mrs.  Rexford  called  through  the 
halls  to  each  other  to  hurry,  and  dropped  hair-pins 
and  nets  all  over  the  floor,  until  at  last  all  three 
were  mounted  and  cantering  down  the  road  to  the 
club. 

Mr.  Leffington  had  a  great  deal  on  his  mind  this 
108 


Mr.  Leffington  Feels  Inspired 

particular  hunting  morning,  since  the  direction 
his  inspiration  the  day  before  had  taken  would  be 
greatly  affected  by  coming  events.  He  noticed 
with  pleasure  that  Gwen  started  violently  when 
she  saw  John  at  the  club  which  he  took  to  mean 
they  had  not  seen  each  other  the  morning  before 
on  the  train,  and  that  a  whispered  conversation 
followed  quickly  between  she  and  Mrs.  Leffington, 
in  which  the  latter  often  looked  at  him,  Mr. 
Leffington,  in  a  manner  which  he  easily  catalogued 
through  long  experience,  as  "stormy.'* 

At  last,  screwing  up  his  courage  he  joined  John 
Rexford  in  conversation,  right  under  the  guns  as 
it  were,  and  finally  with  a  nonchalance  of  which 
Mrs.  Leffington  would  have  believed  him  incapa- 
ble, gave  three  long  blasts  on  his  horn  as  a  warning 
to  all  late  comers,  stuck  his  heel  into  the  Nut- 
Cracker's  side  and  moved  off  alone  in  his  glory  at 
the  head  of  an  eager  pack  of  twenty  couples,  a 
good  sized  field  following  on  behind.  He  had 
given  the  Rocket  to  Gwen  to  ride,  which  was  the 
safest  and  biggest  jumping  horse  in  the  stables, 
and  he  had  seen  that  Rexford  found  a  good  mount 
at  the  club,  so  that  it  was  not  that  which  weighed 
upon  his  mind  and  caused  him  to  remain  unusually 
silent  as  they  trotted  down  the  road  past  Four 
Corners,  and  then  turned  up  into  some  thick 
woods  at  the  crest  of  the  hill  overlooking  the 
109 


HooJ  Beats 

Gainsborough  Farms,  and  with  the  help  of  his 
two  whips  cast  the  pack  into  the  most  hkely  part. 

Mr.  LeflBngton  was  not  a  sentimentahst,  he 
himself  would  have  been  among  the  first  to  deny 
it,  and  his  new  self-appointed  role,  as  peacemaker 
to  a  pair  of  quarrelsome  lovers,  did  not  sit  com- 
fortably on  his  broad  shoulders.  It  had  been 
Mr.  Leffington's  sudden  idea  the  day  before  when 
he  had  slapped  his  leg  so  smartly  in  the  break-cart 
and  startled  the  Nut-Cracker  from  his  somnolence, 
that  if  he  could  bring  it  about  that  the  hounds 
should  kill  again  in  Bagby's  barnyard,  as  they  had 
two  years  before,  when  Gwen  had  followed  John 
over  the  gate,  and  he  had  lifted  her  out  of  the 
saddle,  why  then  the  same  might  happen  again, 
why  not,  and — .  But  foxes  are  notoriously  untrust- 
worthy, and  cannot  be  expected  when  hotly  pur- 
sued by  a  pack  of  twenty  couples  and  as  many 
more  horses  and  men,  to  choose  any  particular 
place  in  which  to  die,  so  Mr.  Leffington  was  obliged 
to  think  of  some  much  more  dependable  scheme. 

When  Mr.  Leffington  once  made  up  his  mind 
he  was  nothing  if  not  thorough,  and  from  the  time 
he  paid  the  stable  boy  to  drag  an  anise-seed  bag  in 
a  circuitous  and  tortuous  route  from  the  crest  of 
the  hill  overlooking  the  Gainsborough  Farms  until 
the  boy  finally  climbed  the  fence  into  Bagby's 
barnyard,  then  got  out  the  remains  of  a  dead  fox 
110 


Mr.  Leffington  Feels  Inspired 

which  someone  had  shot,  and  placed  it  in  the 
middle  of  the  yard, — there  was  not  a  link  in  the 
chain  missing,  and  Sherlock  Holmes  himself 
would  have  been  obliged  to  take  numerous  hypo- 
dermics of  the  deadly  drug  and  play  on  the  violin 
for  hours  before  he  could  have  discovered  the 
deception. 

To  Mr.  Leffington's  trained  and  veteran  ear, 
somewhat  guiltily  sensitive  this  morning,  the  very 
manner  in  which  the  hounds  acted  after  they  were 
cast  into  the  woods,  was  suspicious.  The  blatant 
way  in  which  they  picked  up  the  scent  en  masse, 
as  it  were,  and  went  away  in  such  unheard  of  full 
cry,  before  people  could  even  tighten  their  girths, 
made  Mr.  Leffington  think  that  the  stable  boy 
must  have  emptied  half  of  the  aniseed  bag  some- 
where up  there  in  the  woods,  and  he  fancied  that 
he  could  almost  detect  the  scent  himself.  Mr. 
Leffington  glanced  back  every  once  in  a  while 
over  his  shoulder,  whenever  the  Nut-Cracker 
stopped  pulling  and  boring  long  enough  to  give 
him  a  chance,  and  he  noticed  that  John  Rexford 
was  riding  well  up  in  front  and  that  Gwen  was 
close  behind  him.  The  field  however  had  strag- 
gled and  Mr.  Leffington  chuckled  inwardly  to 
see  how  well  his  plan  was  working  out,  for  in 
truth  it  had  been  no  careless  makeshift,  and  he 
had  reckoned  upon  the  fact  that  both  John  Rex- 
Ill 


Hoof  Beats 

ford  and  Gwen  could  be  counted  on  to  outride  the 
others, — and  that  especially  the  Rocket,  on  which 
Gwen  was  mounted,  could  outgallop  and  out-dis- 
tance any  horse  he  had  ever  owned  over  big  coun- 
try, when  the  hounds  were  well  away.  Indeed  after 
another  look  behind  him  Mr.  Leffington  found  it 
necessary  to  sit  very  close  to  the  saddle  and  take 
a  good  hold  of  the  Nut-Cracker's  head,  for  the 
latter  had  caught  the  dull  sound  of  horse's  hoofs 
pounding  on  the  turf  behind  him,  and  showed  his 
irritation  by  bolting  in  a  characteristic  manner. 
Mr.  LeflBngton  might  be  said,  and  he  admitted 
as  much  later  on,  to  have  been  carried  entirely 
against  his  will  into  the  deep  running  creek  at  the 
edge  of  Runyan's  plowed  field, — and  out  again,  for 
the  last  of  which  he  silently  gave  thanks, — while 
the  others  came  through  the  ford  and  avoided  a 
drenching,  which  was  the  way  any  sane  person  or 
horse  for  that  matter,  would  have  chosen;  but 
no  one  would  have  hazarded  the  statement  that 
the  Nut-Cracker  was  sane,  when  the  hounds 
were  running. 

The  country  was  opening  up  now,  and  the  pack 
was  plainly  visible  two  or  three  hundred  yards 
away,their  music  carried  joyfully  down  the  wind  to 
horses  and  men.  As  they  galloped  on,  the  hounds 
never  checking  at  all,  they  came  finally  in  sight 
of  Bagby's  white-washed  board  fences  and  Mr. 
112 


Mr.  Leffington  Feels  Inspired 

Leffington  knew  that  three  minutes  more  at  tlie 
rate  they  were  going  would  see  the  end  of  the  day. 
To  Mr.  LeflBngton,  Bagby's  barnyard  fence  looked 
peculiarly  high  as  he  rode  at  it  down  the  side  of  a 
hill,  the  hounds  already  swarming  over  and  under 
it,  and  he  hoped  that  the  Nut-Cracker  would  feel 
in  a  proper  frame  of  mind,  for  Mr.  Leffington  had 
known  the  other  long  enough  not  to  have  any 
illusions  as  to  his  being  made  to  jump  it  if  he  had 
rather  not.  But  the  Nut-Cracker  made  a  clean 
performance  and  Mr.  Leffington  barely  had  time 
to  get  away  on  the  other  side  before  John  Rexford 
landed  behind  him  closely  followed  by  Gwen. 
The  rest  of  the  field  came  galloping  down  the  hill 
and  seeing  that  the  hounds  had  already  killed, 
dismounted  and  came  more  or  less  leisurely 
through  the  gate. 

Mr.  Leffington  was  busy  cutting  off  the  dead 
fox's  brush  for  Gwen,  but  he  was  not  to  be  denied 
the  pleasure  of  being  in  at  the  death  as  he  would 
have  expressed  it,  and  so  when  John  Rexford 
came  over  to  his  wife,  lifted  her  out  of  the  saddle 
into  his  arms  and  she  clung  to  him  desperately 
and  Rexford  kissed  her, — Mr.  Leffington  watched 
it  all  in  shameless  triumph  with  an  inscrutable 
smile  illumining  his  lean  bronzed  face. 

And  to  this  day  the  Harkaway  Hunt  does  not 
know,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Leffington, 
113 


Hoof  Beats 

John  Rexford  and  his  wife,  for  it  was  far  too  good 
to  keep  entirely  to  himself,  that  one  of  the  fastest 
runs  the  Club  ever  had,  over  its  stiffest  country, 
the  second  time  the  hounds  killed  in  Bagby's 
barnyard,  was  a  mere  delusion  and  a  snare,  and 
that  in  reality  the  hounds  never  killed  at  all. 

Nor  does  Mr.  Leffington  know,  for  the  others 
would  never  spoil  the  sport  by  telling  him,  that 
John  Rexford  and  Gwen  had  made  it  all  up  on  the 
train  that  Sunday  morning  and  agreed  to  take  in 
poor  Richard.  But  whatever  anyone  says  it 
must  be  admitted  that  Mr.  Leffington  was  a 
consummate  artist  in  his  way. 


114 


WHEN  THE  MARQUIS  CAME  INTO 
HIS  OWN 

THERE  was  a  'southerly  wind  and  a 
cloudy  sky,  and  the  ground  was  moist 
with  dew,'  but  there  would  be  no  hunt- 
ing in  Fairfax  County  that  morning. 
The  hounds  complained  bitterly  behind  closed 
kennel  doors,  they  could  feel  the  scent  in  the 
air,  and  blanketed  hunters  kicked  in  their  stalls 
and  neighed.  Something  most  untoward  must 
have  happened,  when  on  a  day  like  that,  the 
hills  did  not  echo  and  re-echo  with  the  sound  of 
the  huntsman's  horn,  but  all  was  quiet  as  night. 

There  was  hardly  a  sign  of  life  except  where 
one  old  pensioner  hound  nosed  about  in  a  field 
near  the  stable,  fancying  he  had  got  up  a  rabbit 
and  gave  a  short  yelp  now  and  then. 

In  truth  something  unusual  had  happened,  for 
in  another  part  of  the  stable  a  Torchlight  foal  had 
been  born.  And  Torchlight  foals  are  not  born 
every  day,  even  in  Virginia.  So  that  day  there 
would  be  no  hunting,  though  a  fox  should  come 
bark  at  the  door,  and  instead  Fullerton,  the  "vet," 
115 


Uoo}  Beats 

old  black  Ephram,  the  Master  and  others,  watched 
silently  the  little  fellow,  and  occasionally  nodded 
to  each  other  with  knowing  looks  when  he  moved. 
And  in  turn  the  little  foal's  mother  watched  them 
all,  raising  her  head  now  and  then,  to  roll  her  eyes 
in  warning,  if  the  "vet"  stooped  down  to  touch  her 
babe,  or  give  it  something  to  drink.  Then  Fuller- 
ton,  whom  she  had  known  for  years,  would  speak 
softly  to  her,  tell  her  that  all  was  well,  and  with  a 
sigh  she  would  put  her  head  back  in  the  straw. 

For  quite  a  time  it  was  thought  the  foal  would 
not  live,  and  the  "vet"  moved  about  noiselessly, 
while  old  Ephram  tiptoed  here  and  there  as  if  in 
the  presence  of  death,  but  little  by  little  as  Ful- 
ler ton  watched,  the  Marquis,  as  he  was  called 
later  on,  began  to  improve.  First  he  opened  his 
eyes  in  an  odd  wondering  sort  of  way  and  stretched 
his  legs  a  bit.  Then  the  "vet"  drew  a  long  breath 
and  asked  for  the  "makings", — he  reckoned  he'd 
smoke  a  little, — which  was  a  sure  sign  that  his 
work  was  successfully  done,  so  that  Fullerton 
knew  that  the  Marquis  would  live  and  he  smiled 
to  himself  with  pleasure. 

"Do  you  think  he  will  jump?"  he  asked,  and  the 
*Vet"  looked  at  him  with  one  eye-brow  raised. 

*'A  Torchlight  jump?"  he  inquired,  with  a 
quizzical  smile  on  his  lips.  "Can  a  duck  swim?" 
and  old  Ephram  chortled  with  glee  for  an  hour. 
116 


When  the  Marquis  Came  Into  His  Own 

But  Fullerton  and  the  others  had  forgotten  the 
dam  in  thinking  so  much  of  the  foal,  and  when 
they  remembered,  it  was  a  little  too  late,  since 
they  found  her  dead  in  the  stall.  Perhaps  it  was 
that, — for  she  had  been  a  great  mare  in  her  day, 
and  had  won  two  score  ribbons  or  more, — that 
brought  Fullerton  and  the  Marquis  closer  to- 
gether, but  it  is  certain  that  Fullerton  raised 
him  on  a  bottle  and  figuratively  walked  the  floor, 
until  the  Marquis  was  old  and  strong  enough  to 
fight  his  battles  alone.  Therefore  the  Marquis 
was  much  to  be  excused  for  a  great  many  things, 
since  he  had  no  mother,  and  all  the  advice  he  got 
was  from  Fullerton,  who  was  only  a  man  after  all, 
and  not  even  a  horse  as  it  were. 

The  Marquis  was  a  delicate  colt  for  more  than 
a  year  or  two,  for  he  seemed  to  grow  in  all  the 
wrong  places  at  once.  His  back  was  far  too  long, 
though  he  got  most  of  his  growth  in  his  legs, 
which  were  longer  and  far  more  wobbly  than  any- 
thing ever  seen.  But  he  had  a  nice  small  head 
and  muzzle,  and  showed  his  breeding  there. 

When  the  word  went  around,  as  it  does  every- 
where in  the  South,  slow  but  sure,  that  a  Torch- 
light had  been  foaled,  men  who  were  riding  or 
driving  past,  would  pull  up  and  stop  for  a  look 
at  the  latest  addition  to  Fullerton's  thoroughbred 
stock.  But  they  usually  shook  their  heads 
117 


Hoof  Beats 

doubtfully,  or  laughed,  when  they  saw  the  Mar- 
quis. "Run  all  to  legs  and  no  conformation  at 
all,"  they  expressed  it,  though  if  the  Marquis 
heard,  he  did  not  cease  nibbling  his  grass,  and  no- 
one  could  possibly  have  told  that  he  ground  his 
teeth  in  a  rage,  or  was  furiously  angry  within. 
For  the  Marquis  had  always  a  very  quick  temper, 
especially  when  ridiculed.  Fullerton  found  that 
out  one  day  when  he  was  playfully  teasing  him, 
sticking  his  thumb  in  his  ribs,  for  the  Marquis 
caught  him  through  the  arm  with  his  teeth,  and 
Fullerton  never  did  it  again.  After  that  he 
understood  better  how  the  Marquis  felt,  since  the 
county  had  come  to  think  it  an  excellent  joke  on 
him  too,  his  having  this  strange  looking  colt  on 
his  hands.  Indeed  Fullerton  had  rather  bragged, 
before  the  Marquis  was  born,  that  he  anticipated 
the  greatest  colt  of  the  year. 

If  Fullerton  had  been  a  different  sort  of  man  it 
might  have  turned  him  against  the  Marquis,  but 
since  he  was  not,  it  made  him  kinder  instead,  and 
the  colt  never  forgot. 

As  the  Marquis  grew  older,  nature  seemed  to 
do  little  or  nothing  to  aid  him  and  the  way  people 
laughed  was  annoying,  for  there  was  the  Yorkshire 
Lad,  foaled  only  a  day  or  two  later,  that  the 
county  was  still  talking  about, — a  fine  breedy  colt, 
everyone  said,  with  a  short  coupled  back  and 
118 


When  the  Marquis  Came  Into  His  Own 

quarters  to  inatch,that  would  speak  for  themselves 
in  the  field  or  over  a  steeplechase  course.  He 
was  a  picture  to  gaze  at,  the  Yorkshire  Lad,  with 
an  aristocratic  bearing,  and  a  certain  disting- 
uished manner  of  throwing  his  head  in  the  air, 
for  he  seemed  to  possess  all  those  showy  qualities, 
that  count  for  so  much,  which  the  Marquis 
peculiarly  lacked.  But  Fullerton  was  a  man  who 
knew  a  horse,  almost  better  than  any  other,  and 
he  regarded  the  Yorkshire  Lad  as  a  colt  without 
bottom  and  an  abominable  quitter  at  heart. 

And  so  the  Marquis  grew  up  unnoticed,  except 
by  Fullerton  who  was  hunting  all  day  long,  and 
had  little  spare  time  to  waste  on  the  Marquis's 
education.  In  fact  the  county  forgot  his  very 
existence,  and  eagerly  watched  the  Yorkshire  Lad, 
who  stood  sixteen  hands  without  shoes,  and  was 
schooled  each  morning  over  made  jumps  at  the 
end  of  the  lunging  line. 

Just  turned  three  he  did  six  feet  two  without 
effort,  and  the  countryside  fairly  rang  with  his 
praises,  and  prophesied  records  to  follow.  Fuller- 
ton  watched  anxiously  with  the  others  and  was 
invariably  obliged  to  admit  that  the  colt  had  a 
promising  look,  and  that  his  sleek,  well  groomed 
coat  made  the  Marquis's  seem  like  a  rug.  For 
the  furry  hair  on  the  latter's  back  and  quarters 
was  covered  with  short  little  bits  of  straw,  and  as 
119 


Hoof  Beats 

for  his  legs,  the  hair  grown  long  at  the  fet-locks, 
they  resembled  a  Cochin  China's  more  than  any- 
thing else. 

Still,  what  did  that  matter,  FuUerton  persuaded 
himself,  appearances  didn't  count.  Down  there 
horses  weren't  park  hacks  to  be  ridden  in  *' Rotten 
Row,"  but  gentlemen's  hunters,  that  could  gallop 
and  jump  to  the  tune  of  forty  couples.  What  if 
the  Yorkshire  Lad  had  jumped  six  feet  two,  at 
the  end  of  a  lunging  line !  Loose  bars !  that  knocked 
down  at  the  slightest  touch  of  a  horse's  knees. 
Poof!  Hadn't  the  Marquis  jumped  four  board 
fences,  one  right  after  the  other,  only  for  a 
mouthful  of  green  grass  he  saw  growing  near  the 
crest  of  a  hill.^  Those  fences  didn't  knock  down. 
Almost  any  horse  in  the  county,  whether  a  jumper 
or  not,  had  learned,  that  over  Fullerton's  farm, 
the  fences  were  made  of  new  timber  and  wired  up 
to  stay,  and  that  if  one  was  so  unfortunate  as  to 
strike  above  the  knee,  it  turned  one  over  like  a 
clown  in  the  circus,  and  it  was  a  Godsend  for  both 
horse  and  rider,  when  they  fell,  if  it  had  rained  the 
night  before,  or  the  frost  was  out  of  the  ground. 
The  Marquis  had  been  in  the  field  once  when 
the  hounds  had  struck  a  line  across  there,  and  it 
was  evident  then  that  every  horse  was  saving 
himself   when  he  saw   those    fences  ahead,  and 


120 


When  the  Marquis  Came  Into  His  Own 

galloped    a   trifle   more    slowly,   with    his  hocks 
gathered  well  underneath. 

Soon  now  it  would  be  time  for  the  colts  to  be 
hunting,  a  short  canter  and  try  out  to  begin  with, 
over  small  hurdles,  that  would  not  be  strain 
enough  to  hurt  them, — for  the  Marquis  now,  and 
the  others,  were  just  past  three  years  old. 

Even  the  Marquis  was  getting  used  to  the  saddle 
and  bridle  and  the  feeling  of  weight,  for  old 
Ephram  often  rode  him,  but  Fullerton  had  never 
been  on  his  back,  and  only  the  old  stud  groom 
knew  what  power  and  courage  was  there.  Indeed 
Fullerton,  against  his  better  nature,  had  kept 
putting  off  day  by  day,  the  time  when  he  must 
ride  the  Marquis  out  in  the  face  of  a  hunting  field, 
though  continually  he  argued  with  himself  that 
it  did  not  matter,  since  what  real  difference  should 
it  make  to  an  honest,  hard  riding  man,  if  his 
mount  could  but  carry  him  higher  and  faster  than 
any  other  horse  in  the  field. 

The  fall  hunting  had  begun  now  as  the  leaves 
dropped  off  the  trees,  and  lay  brittle  on  the 
ground  below.  There  was  a  sharp  winter  thrill 
in  the  air  and  when  a  farm  dog  barked  in  the 
distance,  or  a  wagon  wheel  crunched,  it  sounded 
much  as  it  does  when  the  snow  is  packed  on  the 
ground.  Twice  the  Yorkshire  Lad, — with  Carroll 
up,  in  pink, — went  cantering  by  on  the  way  to  the 

m 


Hoof  Beats 

meet,  and  each  time  as  they  passed,  the  man 
halloed,  and  the  colt  flung  up  his  head  and  snorted 
in  a  particularly  arrogant  manner. 

The  last  time,  FuUerton  was  just  saddling  his 
old  hunter  Playmate,  outside  the  stable  door, 
when  he  heard  Carroll  call.  He  waved  his  arm 
in  return,  and  dropped  the  girth  he  held  in  his 
hand,  while  he  watched  the  Yorkshire  Lad  in- 
crease his  speed,  and  go  galloping  down  the  road, 
for  Carroll  had  touched  him  gently  with  his  near 
spur  in  order  to  show  off  his  stride. 

Fullerton  watched  them  out  of  sight,  then 
slowly  shook  his  head,  and  glanced  at  the  Marquis 
who  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  paddock  fence, 
painfully  trying  to  appear  unconcerned,  as  he 
nipped  at  the  Playmate's  hocks.  Fullerton  would 
have  given  a  good  deal  then  to  have  owned 
a  colt  that  could  have  made  Carroll  on  his  York- 
shire Lad  sit  tight  and  follow  him  straight-away 
as  the  crow  flies,  but  there  was  little  hope  of  that, 
for  the  Marquis,  he  had  come  to  agree  with  the 
rest,  was  a  failure, — he  had  been  damned  from  the 
start.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  as  the  man  and 
horse  disappeared  from  sight,  and  with  his  head 
beneath  the  upraised  flap  of  the  Playmate's 
saddle,  he  reached  for  the  trailing  end  of  thie  girth, 
and  buckled  and  fastened  it  there,  while  the 
Playmate  groaned  and  swelled  himself  out  to 
122 


When  the  Marquis  Came  Into  His  Own 

make  it  more  difficult,  merely  as  a  matter  of  form. 
Then  old  Ephram  as  usual  dipped  his  brush  in  a 
b  ucket  of  water  and  gave  a  last  touch  to  the  mane, 
and  Fullerton,  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  mounted, 
touched  the  Playmate  ever  so  lightly  with  his 
spurred  heel,  and  rode  him  into  the  yard. 

It  was  the  same  thing  over  again,  Fullerton 
riding  out  on  the  Playmate,  and  the  latter  pretend- 
ing to  buck,  with  absurd  pretensions  to  youth. 
But  this  time  something  unusual  had  happened, 
for  the  Playmate  had  gone  dead  lame.  Fullerton 
pulled  him  up  abruptly  the  moment  he  felt  him 
wince  and  called  for  Ephram  to  come  out.  Then 
he  quickly  dismounted,  lifted  up  the  Playmate's 
off  forefoot,  and  drew  a  nail  from  the  frog. 

"Bring  out  the  Ranger,"  he  said.  'T  mean't 
to  save  him  today,"  but  Ephram  shook  his  head. 

"The  Ranger,  sah,  am  in  town,  habin'  new 
shoes  put  on,"  and  it  seemed  then  if  ever,  that  the 
Marquis's  hour  had  come. 

Fullerton  did  not  think  of  the  Marquis  at  once, 
and  only  swore  softly  to  himself  but  somehow  he 
happened  to  catch  his  eye,  which  made  him  start 
and  ponder,  then  cross  over  and  take  down  a  bar. 
In  another  minute  he  had  slipped  the  Playmate's 
bridle,  the  one  with  the  white  brow  band,  over 
the  Marquis's  ears,  and  buckled  the  saddle  on. 
Then  he  mounted  and  without  hesitation  turned 
123 


HooS  Beats 

the  Marquis's  head  for  the  gap  in  the  fence,  and 
struck  him   hard   with   both   spurs. 

The  Marquis  took  it  swiftly,  almost  from  where 
he  stood,  and  when  they  landed  over,  Fullerton 
pulled  him  up  sharply,  and  measured  the  length 
of  the  jump  with  his  eye. 

"Ephram,"  he  called,  "did  you  know  this  colt 
could  jump?"  but  Ephram  only  rolled  the  whites 
of  his  eyes. 

"The  vet  done  say,  'Ken  a  duck  swim?'  "  he 
grinned,  and  burst  into  spasms  of  laughter. 

The  Marquis  made  the  turn  into  the  road  at  a 
gallop,  the  direction  the  Yorkshire  Lad  had  gone, 
and  Fullerton  sat  close  to  the  saddle  and  took  a 
fresh  grip  on  the  lines.  But  Fullerton  found  that 
the  Marquis  kept  himself  well  in  hand,  for  his 
stride  was  forceful  and  long,  and  covered,  it 
seemed,  just  twice  that  of  any  horse  he  had  ever 
ridden  before.  And  to  the  Marquis,  Fullerton's 
weight  was  nothing  at  all,  he  sat  so  still,  and  his 
touch  on  the  bit  was  so  perfectly  steady  and 
strong. 

When  the  others  saw  Fullerton  approaching 
down  the  road,  at  the  pace  he  was  going  then,  the 
huntsman  had  just  blown  his  horn,  as  a  final 
warning,  and  they  strained  their  eyes  to  see  what 
it  was  that  Fullerton  rode,  for  as  the  Master  said 
afterward,  it  looked  like  a  Teddy  Bear.  The 
124 


When  the  Marquis  Came  Into  His  Own 

Marquis  however,  would  not  have  minded,  for  the 
fire  was  in  his  eyes;  he  had  heard  the  horn  and 
seen  the  hounds,  and  at  last  his  hour  had  come,  for 
a  Torchlight,  chestnut  colt,  is  not  as  you  and  I, 
who  live  and  breath  by  rote. 

First  of  all  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  the  Mar- 
quis was  born  and  bred  a  Torchlight, — and  that 
is  something  to  be  considered,  when  speaking  of 
horses  down  there,  and  too  there  was  the  York- 
shire Lad  beside  him,  which  was  sufficient  alone 
to  make  all  the  gall  of  his  sporting  ancestors  rise 
at  once,  and  he  trembled  and  switched  his  tail  in 
the  air.  Hounds  often  in  the  distance  had  passed 
him  and  he  had  heard  their  voices  afar,  as  well  as 
the  song  of  the  horn,  but  this  was  something  quite 
new.  Now  they  all  moved  jogging  slowly  along 
the  road  together,  horses  crowding  and  jostling 
each  other,  with  the  hounds  following  the  hunts- 
man's lead.  Then  they  went  single  file  into  some 
woods  and  came  out  on  the  other  side  in  the  open, 
where  miles  of  low  rolling  country  stretched 
below  them  invitingly. 

The  hounds  were  eagerly  at  work  near  the  Mar- 
quis,with  the  ringing  voice  of  the  huntsman  urg- 
ing them  on.  Deep  in  the  shadowy  wood  instan- 
taneous flashes  of  white  and  brown,  or  waving 
excited  tails,  caught  the  light  now  and  then,  and 
there  echoed  the  short  eager  cries  of  the  hounds. 
125 


Hoof  Beais 

The  Yorkshire  Lad  was  nervously  alert,  though 
he  had  hunted  a  number  of  times  before.  His 
tail  shook  like  a  reed  in  the  wind,  his  sharp  cut 
nostrils  dilated  swiftly,  and  he  pawed  the  hard 
ground  with  one  forefoot.  The  colts  stood  side 
by  side,  and  it  was  plain  to  FuUerton  that  people 
discussed  them.  The  Yorkshire  Lad  was  half  a 
hand  taller  and  his  coat  shone  like  a  new  silver 
dollar,  but  Fullerton  knew  that  that  wouldn't 
count  if  the  Marquis  could  outjump  and  outgallop 
the  other. 

Fullerton  shut  his  knees  on  the  saddle  in  a  way 
that  made  the  Marquis  catch  his  breath,  which 
coming  fast,  turned,  in  the  sharp  frosty  air,  to  a 
vaporous  cloud,  while  his  small  furry  ears  pointed 
this  way  and  that  and  his  heart  beat  with  longing 
against  the  leg  of  FuUerton's  boot.  Then  one 
hound  began  to  give  tongue,  and  before  Fullerton 
could  change  his  position,  a  big  red  fox,  went 
directly  under  the  Marquis's  legs,  and  the  whole 
pack  burst  forth  like  the  shriek  of  a  sudden 
squall,  and  came  swiftly  towards  them. 

In  a  moment  Fullerton  had  wheeled  him,  leaned 
low  over  his  withers  and  sent  home  both  spurs. 
The  Marquis,  whose  great  strength  lay  in  his 
quarters,  literally  stood  in  the  air, — Torchlight 
colts  will  rear  you  know, — and  with  one  long 
stride,  passed  the  Yorkshire  Lad,  who  was  boring 
126 


When  the  Marquis  Came  Into  His  Own 

his  head  to  the  ground.  Now  came  all  the  boasted 
strength  of  his  ancestors  pounding  through  his 
veins,  and  after  the  first  few  minutes  as  the  Mar- 
quis held  his  own,  FuUerton  felt  more  than  half 
convinced  that  he  had  done  the  colt  a  rank  injus- 
tice, and  that  the  latter  could  gallop  like  that  for 
hours  or  leap  a  five  foot  wall,  and  he  scorned  to 
look  back  for  the  Yorkshire  Lad  but  rode  in  the 
first  flight  with  the  best.  He  picked  out  the 
highest  panel  of  a  stiff  white-washed  board  fence, 
and  as  they  came  safely  over,  theMarquis  squealed 
and  he  heard  the  men  laughing  behind  him.  But 
the  Yorkshire  Lad  followed  him  closely  and  there 
was  little  to  choose  between  the  two. 

Oh  the  glory  of  the  music  to  FuUerton's  soul,  as 
the  scent  began  to  burn,  and  the  hounds  ran  with 
noses  high.  The  bigger  the  fences  the  better, — 
that  would  show  the  difference  between  them, — 
for  the  Yorkshire  Lad  had  the  wasp  of  a  waist 
that  would  test  his  endurance  soon,  and  the  Mar- 
quis had  the  pluck  of  the  devil,  and  a  barrel  that 
not  every  girth  would  go  around.  Sometimes  the 
Yorkshire  Lad's  breath  came  hot  on  his  quarters, 
or  sometimes  they  raced  side  by  side,  while  the 
men  on  their  backs  spared  their  weight  when 
they  could,  and  studied  the  country  beyond. 

Now  comes  the  song  of  the  hounds  ''There  he 
goes,  there  he  goes,  there  he  goes,"  and  the  Mar- 
127 


HooJ  Beats 

quis  breathes  deep  and  rises  gallantly  at  an  ugly 
stone  wall,  and  once  over  goes  hock-deep  in  a  soft 
spot  in  a  plowed  field,  where  the  water  has  run 
down  from  above.  But  he  struggles  out,  laboring 
painfully  as  he  gallops  across  the  heavy  furrows, 
just  in  time  to  see  the  Yorkshire  Lad's  tail  in  the 
air  disappearing  over  a  post  and  rail,  and  down 
the  side  of  a  hill.  Then  Fullerton  tries  to  check 
him  in  order  to  save  his  wind,  but  the  Marquis 
will  have  none  of  it, — he  has  wind  and  plenty  to 
spare!  "There  he  goes,  there  he  goes,  there  he 
goes,"  the  cry  hangs  in  his  ears,  and  he  cunningly 
takes  the  post  and  rail  where  a  bar  is  cracked,  lest 
he  should  come  to  grief,  and  goes  plunging  down 
the  hill. 

A  stream  of  icy  water  flows  rapidly  at  the 
bottom,  and  he  does  not  hesitate,  for  he  sees  the 
Yorkshire  Lad  climb  dripping  out  on  the  other 
side,  but  holds  his  nose  above  the  water  and 
struggles  to  keep  his  feet  on  the  shifting  sandy 
bottom.  It  takes  all  of  his  strength  and  cunning 
to  scale  the  slippery  bank,  but  he's  safely  up  at 
last  and  hears  the  hounds  again. 

"There  he  goes,  there  he  goes,  there  he  goes," 
he  cocks  his  ears  forward  and  harks  to  the  joyous 
refrain.  Now  the  Yorkshire  Lad  is  barely  a  field 
ahead  and  is  showing  the  effect  of  the  pace.  Ful- 
lerton does  not  urge  the  Marquis  now,  indeed  he 
128 


When  the  Marquis  Came  Into  His  Oicn 

is  holding  him  back,  for  a  well  bred  colt  might 
break  his  heart  and  no  one  would  know  'ti.l  he 
dropped.  But  the  Marquis  fights  for  his  head, 
gets  control  of  the  bit,  and  before  FuUerton  can 
take  him  up,  his  bootleg  is  rubbing  the  Yorkshire 
Lad's  soapy  shoulder,  and  the  Marquis  is  leading 
again. 

"Hark  to  'em,  hark  to  'em,  hark  to  'em,"  the 
Master  shouts,  just  as  his  raw-boned  flea-bitten 
grey  strikes  her  knees  on  the  top  of  the  wall,  and 
though  she  scrapes  over,  nearly  goes  down  when 
she  finds  a  nasty  two-foot  drop.  The  Marquis 
rises  at  it  prettily,  nose  and  nose  with  the  York- 
shire Lad,  head  up,  with  his  hocks  well  under 
him, — for  it's  a  treacherous  down-hill  landing,  and 
they  are  going  like  mad,  the  hounds  never  at  fault. 
No  time  to  check,it's  a  breast  high  scent,  but  there 
is  a  difference  now  in  the  voices  of  the  hounds; 
it's  deeper  and  stronger  than  ever  it  was  before 
and  echoes  back  from  two  or  three  fields  beyond. 
"We've  got  him,  we've  got  him,  we've  got  him," 
the  music  seems  to  say,  and  the  Marquis  jumps  at 
the  change  in  the  sound,  and  fights  with  the  York- 
shire Lad  for  the  right  to  lead  the  way. 

"Hark  to  'em,  hark  to  'em,  hark  to  'em," 
again  the  Master  shouts,  and  the  gray  gallops 
bravely  ahead,  forgetting  the  bruise  on  her  knees. 


129 


Hoof  Beats 

and  with  the  rush  of  the  Yorkshire  Lad^s  breath 
past  his  ears,  he  doubles  the  length  of  his  stride. 

"We've  got  him,  we've  got  him,  we've  got  him," 
comes  from  the  field  beyond  but  it  ends  in  a  deep 
throaty  scream  that  announces  the  finish  is  near. 
There's  one  more  jump  that's  all,  the  Marquis  is 
near  it  now,  and  Fullerton  rises  in  his  stirrups  as 
he  glances  back  at  the  Yorkshire  Lad,  and  halloes. 
It's  a  ragged  stone  wall  with  an  ox-rail  before,  and 
a  "rider"  or  two  laid  along  the  top;  a  wicked 
thing  at  the  end  of  a  day,  for  any  horse  to  jump, 
not  to  mention  a  colt. 

The  Marquis's  nostrils  are  quivering  and  show- 
ing the  red  within,  his  ears  are  no  longer  erect, 
and  the  waj^  he  gallops  is  dead;  but  his  eyes  still 
burn,  and  his  tail  sweeps  out,  for  his  is  Torchlight 
blood,  and  there  is  ever  the  pounding  behind  him 
of  the  Yorkshire  Lad's  hoofs  on  the  turf. 

The  Master  once  over  and  safely  away,  turns 
expectantly  in  his  saddle  to  watch,  as  the  Mar- 
quis approaches  the  wall,  and  the  Master  is  not 
disappointed,  for  the  Marquis  makes  one  final 
effort,  gets  well  over,  and  then,  his  hind  feet, 
barely  caressing  the  top,  kicks  himself  away. 
But  the  Yorkshire  Lad  who  comes  under  whip  and 
spur,  is  roaring  hoarsely,  flecked  with  blood  and 
foam,  and  he  falls  when  he  strikes  the  wall. 

That  was  all.  In  another  moment  the  hounds 
130 


When  the  Marquis  Came  Into  His  Own 

killed,  and  a  tremendous  dog  fox  it  was,  as  you 
may  see  for  yourself  if  you  wish,  since  the  brush 
still  hangs  in  the  Marquis's  stall,  though  this 
happened  years  ago.  Indeed  little  was  ever  heard 
again  of  the  Yorkshire  Lad,  but  the  Marquis's 
name  became  law,  among  horses  or  men  who 
hunted. 

And  even  to  this  day  when  the  hounds  are  in  full 
cry,  though  there  be  younger  blood  in  the  field, 
FuUerton  on  the  Marquis  usually  leads  the  way. 


131 


BRUTUS,  COW  PONY 

WHEN  No.  2,  the  big  black  trans- 
port on  which  Brutus  sailed  (odd 
name  for  a  horse,  you  say;  yes, 
that's  what  the  Colonel  said, 
but  that  comes  later),  was  only  a  few  days  out  of 
Cape  Town,  the  first  shot  was  fired  and  the  war 
began.  As  No.  2  finally  steamed  into  the  harbor 
and  docked,  Brutus  fidgeting  excitedly  deep  down 
in  the  hold  with  the  other  horses  of  the  19th 
Lancers,  could  hear  the  bells  in  the  engine  room 
as  they  clanged  for  "Slow,"  the  swish  and  slap 
of  the  sea  against  the  ship's  side,  and  then  the 
gurgling  churn  of  the  waters  as  the  vibrating 
engines  reversed  and  held  her.  Overhead  he 
heard  orders  shouted  and  the  steady  trample  of 
men  as  the  regiments  formed  aft  and  went  down 
the  gangplank,  two  abreast. 

Then  came  the  thing  he  hated  worst  in  the 

world,  which  he  had  gone  through  on  embarking 

and  the  sudden  whirl  to  a  giddy  height,  and  the 

swift  drop  made  him  dizzy.     Horse  after  horse 

132 


Brutus,  Cow  Pony 

preceded  him,  and  then  came  his  turn.  He  braced 
himself,  feet  apart,  the  whistle  blew  shrilly,  the 
cables  ran  creaking  through  the  blocks  and  he 
felt  himself  lifted  high  in  midair  above  the  ship's 
deck  by  the  great  derrick,  swung  out  over  the 
dock,  where  he  turned  slowly  in  the  air,  kicking 
viciously,  with  squeal  upon  squeal  of  sheer 
wounded  dignity  and  rage,  and  then  gently 
lowered  until,  scrambling,  he  found  his  feet  and 
stood  quivering  once  more  on  terra  firma. 

He  was  piebald,  marked  with  brown  and  white, 
and  stood  little  more  than  fourteen  hands,  but  a 
horse  was  a  horse  now  since  the  British  govern- 
ment had  suddenly  waked  up  and  put  a  tag  on 
everything  with  four  legs  in  sight. 

He  was  an  American  cow  pony,  and  by  contrast 
was  almost  pitiful  as  he  stood  near  an  officer's 
big  English  bred  charger,  while  the  soldiers,  rest- 
ing on  their  arms  surrounded  him  laughing.  He 
eyed  them  viciously,  with  his  back  rounded  like 
a  cat's  and  his  ears  laid  back  threateningly. 
Then  quickly  the  soldiers  fell  back  and  Brutus 
saw  an  officer  pushing  his  way  through  the  crowd 
until  he  stood  barely  a  safe  distance  from  his  heels. 
The  officer  was  adjusting  his  monocle  and  trying 
to  read  what  was  printed  on  the  white  square  of 
paper  plastered  on  the  pony's  quarter.  Brutus 
heard  him  muttering: — 
133 


HooJ  Beats 

"Brutus,  No.  214 !  Good  Gawd !  and  for  Troop 
A,  too!" 

Brutus  felt  the  sting  of  the  words  and  the  inso- 
lent manner.  It  was  a  good  thing  for  this  fool, 
he  thought,  with  a  little  thrill  of  pride,  that  Jack 
was  a  fugitive  from  justice  safe  across  the  Texan 
border.  He'd  shot  a  man  more  than  once  for 
less  than  an  insult  to  his  pony. 

Then  he  raised  his  head  and  saw  a  tall,  lank 
sunburned  man  in  a  sombrero  talking  to  the 
English  oflBcer.  Brutus  felt  a  wave  of  homesick- 
ness when  he  saw  the  hat,  but  when  he  heard  the 
other's  voice  it  cheered  him.  He  cocked  his 
ears  forward  and  listened. 

"If  you  don't  want  the  pony  I'll  buy  him,"  the 
man  said  eyeing  Brutus  with  a  knowing  look. 
Brutus  moved  a  step  nearer. 

"Livingston,  you  war  correspondents  have 
queer  tastes,"  the  other  replied  sarcastically. 
"See  the  quarter-master,"  Brutus  gave  a  snort 
of  pleasure  and  kicked  sidewise  at  an  inquisi- 
tive trooper  who  had  come  too  near.  At  any  rate, 
here  was  a  man,  one  of  his  own  kind,  who  knew  a 
good  cow  pony  when  he  saw  one,  even  if  it  did 
look  a  little  underfed  and  ridiculous  and  had  its 
feelings  hurt. 

A  few  minutes  later  Brutus  saw  Livingston 
coming  toward   him. 

134 


Brutus,  Cow  Pony 

"I've  got  him !"  he  heard  him  shout  to  the  officer 
and  saw  him  wave  a  piece  of  paper  in  the  air. 
Brutus  was  glad,  of  course,  but  it  wouldn't  do  to 
give  in  without  a  fight  before  all  those  snickering 
Tommies,  and  then  Livingston  would  think 
better  of  him,  too — that  is,  if  he  was  the  sort  he 
looked  to  be,  with  those  broad,  stooping  shoulders 
and  the  long,  loose  jointed  arms  and  legs.  He  glar- 
ed at  Livingston  and  rounded  his  back  a  little 
more  and  laid  his  ears  back  a  little  further;  then, 
as  the  man  took  a  step  nearer,  he  bared  his  teeth, 
but  in  an  instant  he  felt  the  other  astride  his  back 
and  the  knees  almost  squeezing  the  wind  out  of 
him. 

Good!  This  was  a  man — in  a  flash  he  was  off 
like  a  bolt  of  lightning,  bucking,  rearing  and  sun 
fishing,  while  the  man  on  his  back  belted  him 
about  the  head  with  his  big  felt  hat  and  halloed. 
The  soldiers  watched  them  in  open  mouthed 
wonder  until  they  disappeared  from  view. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  gentle  and  contented, 
Brutus  cantered  quietly  along  the  main  street, 
while  the  man  patted  his  neck  and  laughed  good 
naturedly.  The  war  had  begun  in  earnest  and 
the  town  was  filled  with  horses  and  guns,  the  men 
in  khaki,  while  every  day  another  big  transport 
arrived  and  disembarked  more.  Brutus  had  light 
work  these  days.  It  was  only  to  canter  every 
135 


Hoof  Beats 

morning  down  to  the  cable  office  and  wander 
about,  unhitched,  for  an  hour  or  more,  while 
Livingston,  inside,  pleaded  and  threatened  to  get 
his  message  sent.  He  could  stand  it  now  all  right, 
the  amused  snickers  and  whispered  remarks  of  the 
other  horses,  for  didn't  he  have  a  champion  now, 
that  tall,  weatherbeaten  man  standing  just  inside 
the  door  with  his  hands  on  his  hips,  legs  spread 
firmly  apart,  and  now  and  then  patting  the  big 
**44"  in  the  worn  leather  holster  at  his  side,  as  he 
said  to  the  cable  operator  in  a  deliciously  lazy 
drawl : — 

"Well,  so  help  me,  if  that  cable  isn't  sent  before 
I  come  back  I'll  make  this  office  look  Hke  the 
Fourth  of  July." 

Then,  one  day,  horses  and  guns  and  men  formed 
into  organized  fighting  bodies,  and  little  by  little 
the  town  was  emptied  as  the  army  marched  into 
the  sun  parched  veldt.  Brutus,  keen  and  alert, 
with  the  gaunt  man  in  the  white  pith  helmet, 
became  a  familiar  sight,  as  he  trotted  or  cantered 
untiringly  beside  the  big  troop  horses  of  the 
advance  guard  of  cavalry.  At  night,  when  the 
column  halted,  he  was  hobbled  in  the  horse  lines, 
but  much  to  his  disgust,  with  Troop  A  of  the  19th 
Lancers,  that  had  spurned  him  and  cast  him  out. 
The  war  had  become  a  grim  reality,  and  the  early 
morning  treks  into  the  withering  veldt,  enlivened 
186 


Brutus,  Cow  Pony 

only  now  and  then  by  an  occasional  skirmish,  were 
growing  monotonous  and  beginning  to  tell  on 
horses  and  men,  though  it  could  hardly  be  said  to 
have  altered  Brutus  much,  unless  the  skin  was 
drawn  a  little  tighter  over  the  cowlike  hip  bones 
or  the  eyes  burned  brighter. 

Troop  A  had  had  a  hard  day,  when  one  evening 
about  dark,  dust  covered  and  weary,  with  five 
empty  saddles  and  a  wounded  corporal,  it  found 
itself  compelled  to  pitch  camp  many  miles  from  the 
main  body.  There  was  little  sleep  that  night  for 
horses  or  men.  Signal  fires  were  burning,  little 
patches  of  flame  on  the  distant  hills,  and  the  camp 
watched  them  while  awake.  Hobbled  in  the 
horse  lines,  Brutus  heard  the  words  passed  along 
that  the  Boers  had  cut  them  off  from  the  main 
body  and  that  they  were  hemmed  in.  Brutus 
dozed;  it  was  nothing  new  to  him.  He'd  been 
hemmed  in  before,  once  by  United  States  troops, 
when  he  belonged  to  a  Sioux,  and  again  by  Indians 
when  he  was  rounding  up  cattle  for  the  "XX." 
It  rather  annoyed  him,  the  silly  chatter  the  troop 
horses  kept  up,  especially  that  of  the  dapple  gray. 
The  gray  was  speaking. 

"It's  all  rot,  you  know,  knocking  us  about  like 
this.     Government  should  know  better." 

"Right-o,  my  beauty,"  chimed  in  the  sergeant- 
137 


Hoof  Beats 

major's  chestnut,  "but  h'i  s'y»  some  one  had  to  do 
it,  didn't  they?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  "  the  gray  rephed,  with  a 
toss.  'Tlease  do  not  address  me  as  *your  beauty,' 
and  remember  that  I  am  the  first  lieutenant's 
gray."  Brutus  sniffed.  That  gray  made  him 
tired. 

"Say,  pardner,"  he  said,  "can't  you  cut  that 
out?  I  want  to  go  to  sleep."  The  gray  eyed  him 
haughtily. 

"You  were  addressing  me?"  he  said  interrogat- 
ingly. 

"I  was,"  answered  Brutus  firmly,  with  a  glint 
in  his  eye.  The  gray  ignored  him  and  swished  his 
tail  at  a  persistent  fly. 

"S'y,  you're  the  haughty  one,  ain't  you?"  the 
chestnut  pursued;  "  'e  seems  a  decent  enough  little 
chap."  The  gray  ground  his  teeth — they  needed 
filing. 

"Oh,  yes;  no  doubt  you  think  so,  but  he  strikes 
me  as  an  extremely  common  horse."  A  "Krag" 
cracked  in  the  distance  and  a  bullet  whizzed  out 
of  the  darkness  through  the  horse  lines. 

"There  now,"  the  gray  pursued  wrathfully, 
"what  do  you  think  of  that?  It's  trek,  trek,  trek 
all  day  in  the  blistering  sun  through  the  God- 
forsaken country,  then  tied  up  every  night  to 
be  shot  at.  Beastly  bad  management  somewhere, 
138 


BrutuSy  Cow  Pony 

I  call  it."  Brutus  threw  up  his  head  with  a  snort 
that  startled  the  horses  half  way  down  the  line. 

"My  friend,"  j  remarked,  *Vere  you  ever  in 
Arizona,  when  the  thermometer  was  130,  with  a 
wounded  cow  puncher  on  your  back  and  six 
howling  red  devils  chasing  you  for  seventy  miles, 
without  a  drop  to  drink?" 

"Arizona.^  Never  heard  of  it.  Is  it  in  the 
colonies .5^"  the  gray  condescended.  Brutus  drew 
in  a  deep  breath  that  swelled  out  his  sides  and 
turned  away  with  a  sigh  . . . 

"Go  to  sleep,"  was  all  he  said. 

But  there  was  no  more  sleep  for  any  one.  The 
little  troop  of  one  hundred  men  was  surrounded, 
and  the  neighboring  hills  afforded  safe  means  for 
attack  for  the  Boers.  The  shots  were  popping 
through  the  darkness  with  unpleasant  regularity, 
and  even  the  tiny  spurts  of  flame  were  visible, 
the  enemy  had  come  in  so  close.  The  pickets  were 
falling  back  one  by  one  and  the  camp  was  alive 
and  anxious.  The  horses  were  made  more  secure 
and  the  troop  stood  waiting,  every  nerve  on  edge. 
This  attack  was  not  by  a  mere  detachment  of 
Boers,  it  must  be  the  main  body  itself.  Brutus 
too  felt  the  strain,  though  he  did  not  jump  or 
squeal  every  time  a  bullet  passed  unpleasantly 
near. 

When  the  first  early  light  came  it  found  the 
139 


Hoof  Beats 

troop  still  fighting  bravely,  but  it  had  lost  twenty 
men  and  as  many  more  were  wounded.  The 
horses  too  had  suffered,  and  one  poor  thing  near 
Brutus  dropped  down  with  a  moan,  shot  through 
the  head.  The  troop  too  was  losing  heart  and 
replied  to  the  constant  firing  almost  listlessly. 
Toward  afternoon  the  attack  ceased  and  the  dusk 
came  on  in  peace,  but  all  knew,  horses  and  men, 
that  the  Boers  were  only  resting  and  would  begin 
again  at  nightfall. 

It  was  silent  now,  and  the  deadly  stillness  was 
almost  worse  than  the  noise.  Then  Brutus  heard 
voices  near  him.  Two  men  were  standing  only 
a  few  feet  away.  One  of  them  was  Livingston 
and  the  other  was  the  ranking  officer  of  the  troop. 
Brutus  pushed  his  way  toward  them  and  reached 
his  hot  nose  to  Livingston's  hand. 

"There's  only  one  way,"  the  latter  was  saying; 
* 'that's  for  some  one  to  cut  through  their  lines 
to-night  to  our  main  division." 

"We  could  do  it,"  Brutus  thought,  and  edged  a 
step  nearer. 

"It  can't  be  done,"  the  officer  replied;  "they'd 
down  you  a  hundred  yards  from  camp." 

"I  can  try;  it's  only  fifty  miles,  and  the  pony 
could  do  it  in  five  hours.  These  others,"  Living- 
ston said,  waving  his  hand  toward  the  listening 

140 


BrutuSy  Cow  Pony 

horses,  "would  break  their  necks."  And  Brutus 
bobbed  his  head  approvingly. 

'* You're  a  non-combatant.  If  they  caught  you 
out  there  those  chaps  would  hang  you,"  the  officer 
said. 

"The  New  York  Call  wouldn't  allow  it,"  the 
other  smiled,  "and  I'm  the  only  one  who  can  do 
it." 

That  night  at  nine  o'clock,  when  the  first  ping 
of  a  shot  sounded  from  the  hills,  Brutus  recognized 
a  tall,  stooping  figure  coming  down  the  line,  and 
gave  a  little  whinny  of  pleasure  as  the  man  stopped 
and  threw  a  cloth  and  saddle  over  his  back  and 
tightened  the  girths  with  his  knee  in  the  pony's 
stomach.  The  Lieutenant's  gray  looked  around 
sharply.  "Huh,"  he  snorted.  "I  wonder  what 
they're  up  to.  No  good,  I'll  be  bound.  Two 
of  a  kind,  I  say."  Brutus  lashed  out  with  both 
heels,  for  hard  words  against  one's  master  is  a 
personal  insult  among  horses.  Then  he  felt  the 
cold  steel  between  his  teeth  as  the  bridle  slipped 
over  his  ears,  and  a  minute  later  was  following 
Livingston,  treading  softly  past  the  furthermost 
picket. 

"Good  luck,  sir,  and  God  bless  you!"  he  heard 
the  picket  whisper.  Then  he  felt  Livingston's 
weight  in  the  saddle  and  the  powerful  grip  of  his 

141 


Hoof  Beats 

knees,  and  he  went  forward,  lifting  his  feet  care- 
fully, avoiding  the  rocks. 

The  night  was  black  and  silent  and  hot.  Heavy 
clouds  hung  overhead,  and  now  and  then  a  large 
drop  fell  with  a  spatter  on  the  saddle  bow.  Three 
hundred  yards  from  camp  a  shot  knocked  up  the 
loose  dust  almost  under  his  nose,  and  then  another 
and  another.  They  were  seen !  He  felt  the  sharp 
spurs  in  his  side,  heard  the  man's  low  voice  in  his 
ear  and  knew  the  fight  for  life  had  begun. 

With  his  ears  laid  back  from  his  outstretched 
head  and  his  bony  legs  opening  and  shutting 
swiftly  beneath  him,  Brutus  was  running  as  he  had 
never  run  before.  The  shots  were  coming  faster 
and  faster,  but  Brutus  had  found  his  stride  and  the 
speeding  blur  in  the  dark  made  no  easy  target. 
Little  spits  of  fire  flashed  from  the  darkness  on 
every  side  simultaneously  with  the  crack  of  the 
shots  and  the  whiz  of  the  bullets.  Brutus  was 
galloping  madly.  He  didn't  care  to  be  killed  so 
far  from  home  with  that  sleek  fed  gray  to  joke 
about  it  when  he  was  gone,  and  then  there  was 
the  man  on  his  back  to  think  of.  But  the  shots 
were  fewer  now  and  sounded  from  the  rear.  Then 
came  the  quiet  regular  beat  of  hoofs.  They  were 
through  the  lines  and  the  Boers  were  after  them. 

Brutus  would  have  chuckled  but  for  the  fact 
that  they  had  a  long  way  to  go  and  he  needed  his 
142 


Brutus,  Cow  Pony 

wind.  He  hadn't  had  such  sport  since  those 
braves  had  broken  loose  from  the  reservation. 
An  occasional  shot  came  unpleasantly  near,  then 
the  last  sound  of  hoof  beats  died  away,  and  Brutus 
settled  into  his  accustomed  canter  and  mile  after 
mile  swept  by  monotonously.  Once  when  he 
struck  a  rolling  stone  he  and  Livingston  went 
down  in  a  heap,  but  they  were  soon  up  and  off 
again.  It  was  awfully  hot,  he  thought,  as  hot  as 
Arizona,  and  such  bad  going — the  rocks  were  so 
hard  on  one's  hoofs. 

He  could  keep  this  pace  up  for  hours,  he  knew; 
he'd  done  it  often  before.  There  was  the  time 
the  Sheriff  and  posse  had  tracked  him  and  Jack 
Dunton  the  night  they  held  up  the  Limited,  but 
the  spurs  were  urging  him  faster  now  and  his  legs 
were  beginning  to  ache.  He  heard  Livingston's 
voice. 

"Half -past  eleven.  I  said  we'd  do  it  in  five 
hours;  do  you  think  we  can,  old  boy.^" 

Brutus  swung  on  doggedly,  the  dust  making 
dim  shadow  in  the  night.  He  wished  it  would 
rain  or  something.  Lord!  How  thirsty  he  was! 
A  pony  couldn't  gallop  like  that  forever  without 
a  drink  of  water.  At  least  in  Arizona  there  was  a 
water  hole  now  and  then.  His  tongue  rolled  dry 
in  his  mouth,  and  he'd  never  felt  like  that  inside 
before.  His  sides  were  bursting,  and  the  sweat 
143 


Hoof  Beats 

blinded  his  eyes.  He  wouldn't  stand  it  much 
longer,  he  thought.  No  pony  could,  not  if  the 
Boers  wiped  out  the  whole  blessed  troop.  It 
seemed  hours  before  he  again  heard  the  other's 
voice. 

"One  o'clock,  Brutus;  it's  tough,  I  know,  but 
they've  got  me  through  the  shoulder  and  it  feels 
pretty  bad." 

Brutus  plunged  on.  Shot  through  the  shoulder 
and  not  a  word  of  complaint.  Well,  if  Livingston 
could  ride  five  hours  with  a  hole  in  his  shoulder 
he  needn't  whimper,  but  he  couldn't  help  it  if  he 
felt  a  little  dizzy  and  lost  the  direction  a  bit.  He 
wondered  what  the  gray  would  say  now.  Oh,  well 
it  didn't  much  matter.  Then  he  went  down  in  a 
lump,  and  when  he  staggered  to  his  feet  the  man 
was  standing  near  him,  grasping  his  wounded 
shoulder,  his  face  showing  white  in  the  darkness 
and  his  teeth  clinched  on  his  lip.  A  moment 
later  Brutus  felt  him  crawl  painfully  into  the 
saddle,  the  touch  of  his  spurred  heel  and  the 
nerve  racking  ride  went  on. 

At  fifteen  minutes  of  two  the  furthermost  out- 
post of  the  British  lines  heard  the  muffled  hoof 
beats  of  a  wind  blown  horse,  and  staring  into  the 
blackness  saw  a  piebald  pony,  laboring  cruelly  as  it 
galloped,  a  man  lying  low  on  the  pony's  neck,  one 
arm  hanging  limp.  The  picket  challenged  and 
144 


Brutus,  Cow  Pony 

the  exhausted  animal  came  to  a  stand,  then  sank 
to  the  ground  with  a  gasping  moan.  A  crowd  of 
officers^and^soldiers^stood  over  them,  anxiously 
waiting  for  Livingston  to  speak.  Brutus  tried  to 
raise  his  head.  Was  it  all  for  nothing?  Wouldn't 
he  speak?  Perhaps  he  was  dead!  It  seemed 
interminably  long  before  he  saw  Livingston  move 
and  heard  a  faint  whisper  come  from  his  parched 
lips. 

"Quick!  Troop  A,  due  North,  Boers  in  force." 
Brutus  closed  his  eyes.  Ah!  That  felt  good. 
They  were  sponging  out  his  blistered  mouth  with 
cold  water,  and  a  big  sergeant  with  a  small  cross 
on  his  breast  was  rubbing  his  aching  legs  with  a 
strong  smelling  liniment  and  muttering  between 
breaths, "Plucky  little  devil,"  and  "little  thorough- 
bred." Then  he  heard  the  clear  notes  of  the  bugle 
sounding  "boots  and  saddles"  all  over  the  camp, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  the  trample  of  many  horses 
the  dull  rumble  of  the  gun  carriages  and  the  rattle 
of  accoutrements  as  two  regiments  of  horse  and  a 
light  battery  galloped  out  into  the  night,  choking 
the  camp  with  dust.  It  took  them  eight  hours  to 
reach  Troop  A,  and  they  got  there  only  just  in 
time  to  prevent  the  Boers  from  rushing  the  half 
of  the  troop  left  alive. 

Two  nights  after  the  reinforcements  had  gone, 
Troop  A  straggled  wearily  into  camp,  forty  men 
145 


Hoof  Beats 

short,  with  thirty  wounded  in  the  ambulances, 
and  reported  the  engagement  still  going  on. 
Brutus  was  hobbled  in  his  old  place  in  the  horse 
lines  of  the  troop.  There  were  a  good  many  va- 
cant spaces  now,  but  the  tired  horses  snickered, 
made  quite  a  fuss  over  him,  and  came  as  near  as 
their  ropes  would  allow. 

"Bully  for  you,"  shouted  the  sergeant-major's 
chestnut.  "We're  proud  of  you,  we  are."  Bru- 
tus was  a  plain  pony  and  praise  embarrassed  him. 
He  bobbed  his  head  modestly  and  reached  for  a 
mouthful  of  hay. 

"And,  old  chap,"  said  the  gray,"I'll  take  all  that 
back,  you  know;  you're  a  well  plucked  one  and 
I  couldn't  have  done  better  myself."  The  chest- 
nut snickered  outright. 

"You!"  he  scoffed,  throwing  up  his  tail  dis- 
gustedly. "Why  your  bloomin'  bones  'ud  be 
rottin'  in  the  sun  by  now!" 

Brutus  turned  away,  he  didn't  care  to  hear  their 
petty  squabbling;  he  had  done  his  duty  and  was 
glad.  He  heard  voices  in  the  distance,  and  look- 
ing down  the  lines  saw  several  oflScers  and  Living- 
ston strolling  leisurely  toward  him. 

"Here  he  is,"  he  heard  the  latter  say. 

"Not  much  to  look  at,  but  his  heart  is  as  big  as 
his  body."  All  the  troop  horses  stood  rigidly  at 
146 


Brutus,  Cow  Pony 

* 'Attention"  as  the  regiment's  colonel  stepped 
forward. 

"Who'd  believe  it  possible,"  he  said,  his  hand 
stroking  Brutus'  nose. 

"The  plucky  little  chap.  Brutus,  you  say  he 
was  called.  Odd  name  for  a  horse.  'The 
noblest  of  them  all,'  "  the  colonel  mused.  "By 
Jove,  I  wonder.  Why,  Livingston,  you  must 
ride  almost  twelve  stone!"  he  exclaimed  as  they 
turned  to  go. 

"Twelve  stone  three,"  Brutus  heard  the  other 
reply.  The  horses  could  hear  the  colonel  talking 
as  the  men  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

"Now  that's  the  trouble,"  he  was  saying,  "with 
these  big  animals  like  that  gray."  The  gray 
stood  over  sixteen  hands. 

"They're  useless  in  this  country.  Government 
should" — The  rest  was  lost  in  the  night.  The 
gray  looked  straight  ahead,  as  if  he  had  not  heard, 
but  the  chestnut  snickered  delightedly. 

"That's  one  on  you,  old  boy,"  he  chuckled,  and 
gave  the  other  a  spiteful  nip.  Brutus  smiled  to 
himself. 

"Good  night,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "I  guess  I'll 
turn  in,"  and  with  a  grunt  of  contentment  and 
good  will  toward  all  he  stretched  his  still  weary 
legs  and  lay  down  to  sleep. 


147 


"THOSE  WHO  RIDE  STRAIGHT*' 

NORMAN  and  his  wife  and  I  have  kept 
this  story  well.  It  is  far  too  sacred  to 
us  to  risk  having  it  taken  lightly,  or 
in  ridicule.  It  is  just  as  much  a  part 
of  our  lives  as  anything  else,  perhaps  more. 

Not  one  of  us  three  has  ever  doubted  for  an 
instant.  If  I  exist,  if  Norman  and  his  wife  exist, 
then  the  following  facts  are  true  beyond  contro- 
versy : 

Trotter  came  from  England  to  this  country 
some  ten  years  ago,  settled  down  not  far  from 
here,  and  within  a  month  everybody  felt  as  if 
they  had  known  him  always.  It  doesn't  take 
long  to  get  acquainted  in  any  hunting  community, 
but  besides  that  Trotter  was  one  of  those  men 
you  run  across  occasionally  that  both  men  and 
women  like. 

There  was  something  about  Trotter  that  radi- 
ated both  strength  and  confidence.  When  any 
one  felt  worried  or  troubled  they  invariably  sought 
out  Trotter,  and  merely  sitting  near  him  and 
hearing  him  talk  in  his  quiet,  convincing  way, 
148 


''Those  Who  Ride  Straight'' 

seemed  to  strengthen  one  without  doing  him  any 
harm. 

But  in  the  beginning  the  men  hked  him  for  his 
perfect  seat  on  a  horse  and  the  way  he  took  his 
liquor,  and  the  women  worshipped  his  British, 
blond,  good  looks  and  his  smile,  which  didn't 
flirt,  but  could. 

He  had  served  over  half  the  civilized  vrorld 
before  he  caught  his  fever  on  the  "West  Coast" 
and  had  to  leave  the  army.  That  was  how  he 
happened  to  come  among  us,  the  fever,  and  the 
fact  that  some  American  cousins  hunted  with  our 
pack. 

It  was  a  curious  thing,  this  fever.  At  the 
most  unexpected  times,  just  when  he  seemed  at 
his  best,  it  would  strike  him  and  roll  him  out  like 
a  baby,  though  he  stood  six  feet  two  in  his  stock- 
ing feet,  and  weighed  in  at  one  hundred  and 
eighty-two. 

"Just  thirteen  stone,  y'know,  and  it  takes  a 
bit  of  flesh  to  carry  me." 

I  can  hear  him  say  it  now,  in  his  lazy  drawl, 
clicking  the  stem  of  his  pipe  against  his  even  white 
teeth. 

Poor  Trotter!  Still  I  don't  know  why  I  should 
say  poor  Trotter.  He  got  more  out  of  life  than 
most  of  us ;  that  is,  he — 

But  I'd  better  get  on  with  the  story. 
149 


Hoof  Beats 

After  Trotter  had  been  with  us  about  a  week — 
he  had  bought  the  Httle  green  and  white  farm- 
house about  a  mile  from  the  kennels — Norman, 
the  master,  met  him  and  invited  him  to  ride  with 
the  pack. 

The  first  day  he  came  out  we  jumped  a  big  dog 
fox  in  an  open  field,  not  a  stone's  throw  from  the 
kennels,  hunted  him  across  the  Archer  Farms  and 
down  through  Blue  Mountain  Valley.  You  know 
the  run,  of  course,  straightaway,  jump  and  jump 
again — some  one  down  sure  at  McAdam's  gate, 
and  so  on.     Stiff  country! 

Well,  after  that  Trotter's  position  was  assured. 
He  rode  the  master's  Spread  Eagle,  an  old  ex- 
steeplechaser,  not  an  easy  horse  to  sit  by  any 
means.  Naturally  every  one  watched  him — 
newcomer,  British,  and  all  that.  If  there  were 
any  flaws,  we  were  out  to  pick  them.  But  there 
weren't. 

Trotter  was  lean  as  a  ham-bone  in  spite  of  his 
weight,  and  if  ever  a  man  looked  a  picture  in  the 
saddle,  he  did.  He  sat  straighter  than  most  of 
us,  who  had  dropped  into  rather  sloppy  habits — 
something  between  a  Life  Guard's  and  a  fox- 
hunting seat  that  looked  workmanlike  and  grace- 
ful. 

Besides,  what  was  more  important,  his  hands 
were  as  light  as  a  child's.  The  master  himself 
150 


''Those  Who  Ride  Straight'' 

said  he  had  never  seen  better  hands.  Spread 
Eagle,  with  a  mouth  Hke  a  monkey-wrench,  that 
always  bolted  when  hounds  went  away,  hadn't 
pulled  an  ounce. 

A  lot  of  things  happened  that  first  day  Trotter 
came  out,  things  we  didn't  realize  then  were  hap- 
pening. 

The  principal  one  was  Alice.  All  the  others 
followed  as  a  sequence.  I  introduced  Trotter  to 
Alice  myself,  Alice  being  my  first  cousin.  The 
hounds  were  just  ahead  of  us  down  the  road. 
I  remember  every  detail. 

She  was  riding  on  my  right  hand  and  he  was  a 
trifle  beyond  her. 

"Alice,"  I  said,  in  my  best  manner,  ** allow  me 
to  present  Mr.  Trotter." 

You  knew  Alice.  What  a  brick  she  was !  The 
best  fellow  I  ever  knew.  She  could  sit  a  horse, 
too,  and  nerve  in  the  field — she  used  to  make  me 
ill  at  times. 

"Howdy  do,"  says  Alice,  putting  out  her  hand 
in  that  quick,  deliberate  way  she  had,  head  up, 
eye  to  eye. 

Trotter's  hand  met  hers,  and  their  eyes,  too, 
met. 

I  was  watching  carefully.  I  always  liked  to 
get  Alice's  estimate  of  a  man.  If  she  smiled,  it 
151 


HooJ  Beats 

was  more  than  enough  for  me.  Alice  could  tell  if 
a  man  was  sound  as  surely  as  she  could  a  horse. 

She  smiled,  and  then  I  noticed  the  smile  die 
away  trembling  on  her  lips,  and  the  red  pour  into 
her  cheeks.  Alice  almost  never  blushed.  She 
took  her  hand  from  Trotter's  slowly,  and  when  I 
glanced  quickly  at  him  to  see  if  he,  too,  had  no- 
ticed, there  was  the  oddest  expression  upon  his 
face. 

His  eyes  were  quite  wide  and  filled  with  wonder, 
like  a  child's.  I  know  it  was  striking  enough — 
the  whole  episode — to  cause  me  to  sing  out  in  my 
unfortunate,  blundering  way: 

"Hallo,  you  two  met  before?" 

But  Alice  only  urged  her  horse  forward,  and 
Trotter  looked  away  and  remained  staring  across 
the  fields  as  if  he  were  gazing  into  centuries  of 
space.  A  few  moments  later  the  hounds  were 
off  and  I  had  something  else  to  think  of  besides 
Alice  and  Trotter,  being  mounted  on  a  green 
three-year-old  with  a  hot  temper  and  just  enough 
thoroughbred  in  him  to  make  him  want  to  rush 
his  jumps. 

A  few  hours  later  when  we  "killed,"  and  then 
rode  back,  I  had  nearly  forgotten  all  about  it. 
Trotter  was  very  pleasant  and  amusing,  and 
everybody  tried  to  make  him  feel  at  home. 

I  don't  know  whether  it  was  noticed  or  not — 
152 


"Those  Who  Ride  Straight'' 

yes,  I  remember  now,  Mrs.  Norman  did,  the 
master's  wife,  we  spoke  of  it  afterward — but 
Trotter  never  took  his  eyes  off  Ahce  the  entire 
time.  And  Alice  knew  it,  too,  for  she  didn't 
open  her  lips,  and  the  color  kept  coming  and 
going  in  her  cheeks. 

When  we  were  near  home,  Mrs.  Norman,  a  great 
pal  of  Alice's,  whispered  in  my  ear. 

"Alice's  hit." 

"What  d'ye  mean?"  I  frowned,  knowing  well 
enough.     Mrs.  Norman  snorted  at  my  stupidity. 

"She's  hit,  I  tell  you.  Now,  her — our  troubles 
begin.  She's  held  off  pretty  well  so  far.  It  had 
to  come,  though,  some  day." 

I  was  really  annoyed.  I  was  fond  of  Alice  my- 
self. 

"Nonsense,  you  women  are  always  looking  for 
romance." 

Mrs.  Norman  is  a  discerning  woman.  She 
stopped  fussing  about  being  pretty,  long  ago, 
though  she  still  is,  and  wears  her  hair  sleeked  back 
and  rides  hard.  It's  what  her  husband  admires 
most  about  her,  and  she  knows  it. 

She  only  nodded  knowingly  in  reply.  She  was 
right. 

Personally,   I  always  thought  Alice  was   one 
of  the  handsomest  women  I  ever  saw,  but  now 
she  fairly  seemed  to  blossom. 
153 


Eoof  Beats 

Her  hair  was  as  black  as  Trotter's  was  light. 
Her  coloring  was  deep,  too,  and  her  eyes  big  and 
expressive.  In  a  habit  there  was  no  one  in  the 
field  could  approach  her. 

Some  days  later  I  saw  her  again.  Met  her  on 
the  soft  road  at  the  edge  of  the  woods  exercising 
her  gray  mare.  We  rode  along  together  for  a 
while  without  saying  much.  Alice  and  I  knew 
each  other  too  well  to  have  to  talk. 

Finally  she  turned  to  me  with  a  queer  expres- 
sion as  if  she  wanted  to  say  something,  but  was  a 
trifle  embarrassed  or  timid  about  beginning.  It 
wasn't  at  all  like  Alice. 

"Let's  have  it,"  I  smiled,  trying  to  give  her  a 
lead  and  help  her  over. 

"Joe,"  she  began,  "did  you  ever,  ever  meet 
people  you'd  known — before." 

That  puzzled  me. 

"What  are  you  driving  at,  XY\ce — ever  meet 
people  I'd  known  before?  Why  certainly,  every 
day." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You  don't  understand.  I  mean  known, 
known  a  very  long  time  ago,  in  some  other  life 
or — something. " 

"Why,  Alice,"  I  exclaimed,  "you  surely  don't 
believe  in  that  sort  of — " 
154 


''Those  Who  Ride  Straight'' 

But  that  was  all.  She  had  touched  the  mare 
with  her  spur  and  later  she  wouldn't  speak. 

After  that  she  and  Trotter  were  inseparable 
and  naturally  I  got  to  know  him  pretty  well. 
One  day  he  and  I  were  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire 
at  the  club.  It  was  snowing  again  and  hunting 
closed  for  two  weeks  past.  Suddenly  he  turned 
to  me.     Right  out  of  the  blue  he  asked  it. 

"Ever  been  in  Delhi?" 

I  hesitated. 

"Delhi,  Where's  that,  India.?     Why?" 

"Oh,  I  wondered.  Where  I  first  met  Alice, 
y'know." 

I  swung  round. 

"Alice!" 

"Why,  yes." 

"Absurd,"  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  and 
then  I  thought  better.  He  was  staring  into  the 
fire. 

"Oh,  yes,  it  has  all  come  back  now.  I  had  just 
returned  with  my  company.  We'd  been  chasing 
one  of  the  hill  tribes  that  had  turned  rogue.  She 
hasn't  changed,  except  to  grow  more  beautiful." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence. 

"Alice  remembers  of  course."  I  spoke  as 
evenly  as  I  could. 

"Of  course.  She  mentioned  it  first.  Odd, 
155 


Hoof  Beats 

isn't  it?  Says  she  recalls  it  all,  Delhi,  the  old 
garrison,  and  everything. " 

I  didn't  think  it  worth  while  to  protest,  to  say 
I  knew  Alice  had  never  been  there. 

*' We're  going  to  be  married,  y'know,"  he  went 
on.     "Alice  wouldn't  mind  my  telling  you." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  be  shaken,  smiling 
happily. 

"Bully,  isn't  it?  What  a  lucky  chap  I  am. 
Alice — they  don't  come  often  like  her.  She's 
much  too  good  for  me,  of  course.  Says  she's  not 
though.  We'll  hit  it  off  first-rate,  don't  you 
think?  You  see,  we've  known  and  loved  each 
other  for  ever  so  long." 

I  shook  his  hand  vigorously,  but  my  voice  was 
husky.  It  was  all  very  well  to  say,  "poor  Trotter, 
the  fever  again,"  but  what  about  AHce? 

She  remembered. 

No  fever  about  Alice,  just  level-headed,  square 
as  a  brick,  horse  sense.  I  was  glad  though  they 
did  not  tell  any  one  else  about  that  silly  business. 

A  month  later  they  were  married.  Every  one 
was  delighted,  even  the  women  who  had  tried  to 
get  Trotter.     We  were  all  so  fond  of  Alice. 

He  took  her  to  the  little  green  and  white  farm- 
house, no  bigger  than  a  box  stall,  and  the  whole 
country  went  to  call,  and  most  of  us  spent  half 
our  time  there,  the  women  upstairs  gossiping  with 
156 


''Those  Who  Ride  SiraighV 

Alice,  and  the  men  below  smoking  and  listening 
to  Trotter  talk,  for  he  was  an  intelligent  chap  and 
had  been  nearly  everywhere  worth  going. 

It  was  too  good.  We  were  all  too  lighthearted, 
too  happy.  It  couldn't  last .  It  ended,  but  not  in 
the  usual  way.  No,  not  the  least  bit  in  the  usual 
way. 

Alice  died.  Died  the  way  she  always  hoped 
she  would — in  the  field.  She  had  no  fear  of  death, 
no  fear  of  anything  I  ever  knew  of.  She  used  to 
say  quite  frankly  she  enjoyed  life,  but  when  the 
end  came  she  wanted  to  go  out  with  a  good  horse 
under  her  and  the  hounds  in  full  cry. 

In  any  one  else  it  might  have  sounded  cheap, 
but  not  in  Alice.  We  all  knew  she  meant  it,  and 
many  is  the  time  I  have  thought  she'd  have  her 
wish.     She  rode  overwell,  overhard  for  a  woman. 

It  wasn't  far  from  where  Trotter  met  Alice — 
the  Archer  Farms.  The  gray  mare  simply  pecked 
badly  at  a  big  plank  fence  and  went  down.  It 
didn't  look  like  a  nasty  fall. 

The  mare  was  up  in  a  flash  and  galloping  off, 
but  Alice  lay  still.  That  frightened  me.  Trotter 
and  I  reached  her  at  almost  the  same  time.  She 
was  unconscious,  but  in  a  moment  she  opened  her 
eyes. 

Trotter  had  her  head  on  his  arm  and  was  gazing 
into  her  face.  His  lips  moved,  too,  as  if  he  were 
157 


Hoof  Beats 

praying.  I  let  the  horses  go  and  knelt  by  her 
side. 

"Jim,"  I  heard  her  whisper  to  Trotter,  "kiss 
me.  The  mare  has  rolled  me  out.  It's  my  back. 
Don't  worry,  Jim;  we  understand,  don't  we?  It 
won't  seem  so  long,  dear." 

And  with  that  she  was  gone. 

After  that  Trotter  was  never  the  same.  He'd 
answer  you  in  an  absent-minded  way,  but  his 
eyes  looked  vague  and  far-away.  It  always 
seemed  as  if  he  saw  more  than  the  rest  of  us. 
Perhaps  he  did. 

That  spring  I  used  to  sit  with  him  often  on  the 
piazza  of  the  little  green  and  white  farmhouse 
trying  to  cheer  him  up.  But  often  I  have  thought 
that  he  hardly  realized  I  was  there,  though  he  was 
always  well  mannered  and  considerate. 

The  following  fall,  hunting  opened  again.  I 
tried  to  make  Trotter  come  out,  but  he  wouldn't. 
I  think  he'd  seen  enough  of  hunting.  He  couldn't 
seem  to  bear  even  the  sound  of  the  hounds.  But 
he  still  kept  his  two  half-bred  hunters  and  the  big 
thoroughbred  mare. 

Once  or  twice  I  rode  with  him,  but  found  him 
preoccupied  and  distrait,  so  concluded  he  had 
lost  all  interest  in  the  sport,  which  was  bad.  Later, 
I  heard  from  several  different  people  that  he  had 
been  encountered  riding  hard  at  night;  once  when 
158 


"Those  Who  Ride  Straight 

the  moon  was  up,  so  Norman  told  me.  It  must 
have  been  near  midnight.  He  had  seen  him 
going  'cross  country,  over  the  Archer  Farms,  at 
a  gallop.  Norman  said  he  thought  some  one 
ought  to  stop  him  as  that  country  was  bad  enough 
in  broad  daylight. 

Norman  is  a  hard-headed,  matter  of  fact  kind 
of  man,  the  best  M.  F.  H.  in  the  State,  not  the 
sort  to  see  things  if  they  weren't  there,  or  have 
delusions.  But  it  was  evident  he  was  holding 
something  back. 

"What  is  it,"  I  demanded;  "out  with  it." 
Norman  blinked  disconcertedly. 

"Oh,  nothing,  except,  of  course,  it  couldn't  be, 
but  there  was  someone  riding  with  him. " 

"Nonsense!" 

Norman  nodded. 

"Of  course,  no  woman  would  be  such  a  fool. 
That's  what  I  said  to  myself.  It  must  have  been 
only—" 

"Woman!" 

"Why,  yes.  That  is,  it  looked  like  one.  It 
was  on  the  other  side  of  Trotter,  away  from  me, 
horses  going  nose  and  nose.  You  know,  just  as 
they  used — " 

He  stopped  suddenly. 

A  little  shiver  ran  over  me. 

"Did  it,"  I  choked.  "Confound  it,  man, 
159 


Hoof  Beats 

answer  me;  did  she  look  like  Alice?"  I  blurted 
out  at  last. 

' '  Look  like  Alice  ?  Look  like  Alice  ? ' '  Norman 
hissed  at  me  between  clenched  teeth.  "It  was 
Alice,  I  tell  you.     Ruth  and  I  both  saw. " 

He  left  me  there  staring  vacantly  at  the  door 
he'd  slammed  behind  him. 

I  didn't  see  Norman  again  for  several  days  after 
that.  We  rather  avoided  each  other,  I  fancy. 
Then,  one  morning  Mrs.  Norman  called  me  up 
and  asked  me  there  to  dine  that  night.  Norman 
laughed  a  little  sheepishly  when  we  met. 

"Something  must  have  got  on  my  nerves  the 
other  day.  What  rot!  Believed  it,  too,  you 
know,  hanged  if  I  didn't.  Have  a  cocktail?" 
JMrs.  Norman  accepted  for  me. 

"Of  course,  we  both  will.  What  were  you 
saying  about  nerves?" 

But  Norman  was  already  making  a  great  noise 
wdth  ice  and  a  shaker.  Either  he  didn't  hear  or 
pretended  not  to. 

After  dinner  we  sat  and  sipped  our  coffee  com- 
fortably, while  Norman  discoursed  on  the  trials 
and  tribulations  of  an  M.  F.  H.  Once  Mrs.  Nor- 
man interrupted. 

"We  all  ought  to  drop  in  on  Jimmie  this 
evening.     We  haven't  been  for  ages.     Shall  we?" 

The  green  and  white  farmhouse  where  Trotter 
160 


"Those  Who  Ride  Straight" 

lived  was  only  a  short  half-mile  away.  Norman 
looked  at  me.  I  nodded,  and  he  went  out  to 
order  his  old  broken  down  thoroughbred  put  to 
the  cart. 

In  front  of  Trotter's  house  his  big  black  mare 
stood  patiently,  saddled  and  bridled,  rubbing  the 
crest  of  her  head  against  a  tree.  The  door  was 
open. 

\Mien  Trotter  heard  us  drive  up,  he  came  to 
the  door  and  stood  there  a  moment  silhouetted 
against  the  bright  light  within.  He  was  in  riding 
clothes  and  was  either  about  to  go  out  when  we 
arrived,  or  had  just  come  in.  He  seemed  glad  to 
see  us,  in  fact  we  had  never  seen  him  gayer. 

Trotter  could  make  himself  tremendously 
amusing  when  he  chose.  I  think  he  was  particu- 
larly fond  of  us  three,  we  had  knowm  Alice  so  well. 

He  rattled  on  about  nothing,  his  eyes  bright, 
his  cheeks  a  high  color.  Once  without  apparent 
reason  he  suddenly  stopped,  got  up — went  out 
into  the  hall  and  stood  listening.  When  he 
returned  he  offered  no  explanation,  and  I  hesi- 
tated asking  any. 

Alice  had  a  beautiful  voice,  not  trained,  you 
know,  but  a  nice,  low-speaking  voice,  very  tuneful 
and  pure  when  she  sang. 

Often  I  have  heard  her  in  the  early  morning  as 
she  cantered  along  under  my  window,  while  I  was 
161 


Hoof  Beats 

hurrying  into  my  boots,  with  her — "Tally-0, 
Oh  John  Peel's  Tally-0!  would  awaken  the  dead 
or  a  fox  from  his  lair  in  the  morning!  Get  up, 
Cousin  Ned.     Time  and  hounds  wait  for  no  man. " 

And  then  a  delicious  care-free  laugh  rippling 
off  in  the  distance  and  the  swift  fatter-pat  of  the 
gray  mare's  hoofs  as  she  felt  the  spur. 

Trotter  had  set  out  the  whisky  and  soda  with 
a  kind  of  nervous,  worried  hospitality,  his  eyes 
wandering  inevitably  back  to  the  little  silver  clock 
on  the  mantelpiece.  I  think  Mrs.  Norman  must 
have  been  noticing  him  more  particularly  than 
her  husband  or  myself  from  what  she  told  me 
afterward. 

At  any  rate,  I  recall  Trotter  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  quite  motionless,  with  the 
intense  expression  of  countenance  one  has  in 
trying  to  catch  a  faint  and  distant  sound.  Mrs. 
Norman  was  sitting  near  him  with  her  eyes  up- 
turned to  his,  watching,  a  little  frightened  I 
think. 

Norman  did  not  seem  to  be  taking  it  in,  but 
the  silence  and  the  preoccupation  of  all  must  have 
disturbed  him,  for  suddenly  he  reached  out  and 
noisily  poured  himself  a  drink,  then  lay  back  in  his 
chair  again. 

"Hush!"  says  Trotter. 

At  that  Norman  sat  upright.  When  he  saw 
162 


''Those  Who  Ride  Straight'' 

Trotter's  queer  staring  eyes  and  our  intent  ex- 
pression, the  glass  shook  a  httle  in  his  hand  and 
the  ice  jingled. 

"What  is  it,  Jimmie?"  Mrs.  Norman's  low 
voice  questioned  softly. 

"Don't  you  hear.^  Hark!"  He  put  out  his 
hand  as  if  afraid  one  of  us  would  answer. 

No  one  spoke.  A  gust  of  wind,  without  warn- 
ing, half  closed  the  hall  door,  then  threw  it  back 
banging  against  the  wall. 

Trotter  did  not  notice.  Norman  started  and 
half  rose  from  his  chair.  As  he  did  so,  it  came 
faintly  almost  imperceptibly. 

-T-a-l-l-y~0." 

One  long  silvery  note,  clear  as  a  bell.  It 
sounded  a  very  long  way  off. 

My  blood  froze  and  fear  gripped  me  with  icy 
fingers.  Mrs.  Norman  swayed,  and  a  stifled  cry 
escaped  her.  Her  husband  sprang  from  his  chair 
and  crossed  to  her. 

All  was  still  again.  Trotter  remained  standing 
there,  a  weird  sight,  straining  his  ears  for  the 
sound. 

"T-a-1-l-y— O!  John  Peel's  Tally-0!  would 
awaken  the  dead  or  a  fox  from  his  lair  in  the 
morning. " 

How  well  we  knew  that  voice,  soft,  yet  ringing 
clear  and  strong !  I  sprang  for  the  door.  Trotter 
163 


Hoof  Beats 

grasped  me  roughly  and  stopped  me.  Then  he 
threw  back  his  handsome  head,  hand  to  his 
mouth — 

"T-a-1-l-y— O!     A-way!"  he  sang. 

His  big  voice  made  the  Uttle  room  reverberate 
and  the  silent  night  without  echoed  and  re-echoed. 

Then  distinctly  came  the  swift  patter-pat 
patter-pat  of  a  galloping  horse.  Rapidly  nearer 
and  nearer  it  drew.  It  passed  the  house.  I  was 
shaking  like  a  leaf. 

"T-ally-0!" 

Norman  was  holding  his  wife  in  his  arms  and 
shaking  too. 

"Tally-0!" 

Trotter  gave  us  one  wild  glance.  In  a  flash  he 
was  out  of  the  door.  I  was  after  him  just  as  he 
reached  the  road,  in  time  to  see  him  throw  him- 
self lightly  across  the  black  mare's  back.  He  was 
gone! 

Norman  and  his  wife  had  run  out  and  were 
standing  by  me  peering  into  the  night.  With  one 
accord  we  climbed  into  the  break-cart  and  raced 
after  him. 

"Them,"  I  say,  for  none  of  us  doubted  longer. 
Once  we  caught,  on  the  down  wind,  Trotter's 
long-drawn  deep-throated  "T-a-1-l-y — O!" 

A  little  later  as  the  moon  came  from  behind  a 
cloud  spreading  a  pale,  queerish  light  over  every- 
164 


''Those  Who  Ride  Straight'' 

thing,  we  saw  him  in  a  field  beyond  riding  hard, 
sitting  deep  in  the  saddle  and  spurring. 

Mrs.  Norman  stood  up  in  the  cart  and  shrieked. 

"Jimmie,  come  back!"  But  her  husband 
pulled  her  down  to  the  seat  again. 

The  road  was  good  where  we  drove  and  we 
kept  apace.  AYe  were  galloping  past  the  Archer 
Farms. 

Trotter  rode  in  plain  sight.  His  head  was 
turned  away,  and  he  waved  his  hand  and  talked 
to  some  one  near  him.  Suddenly  the  light  began 
to  fail.  A  large  black  cloud  was  passing  over  the 
moon.     It  was  almost  dark. 

Call  it  what  you  will,  a  trick  of  the  shadows, 
an  optical  delusion,  but  whatever  it  was,  there 
was  Alice  and  the  gray  mare  not  a  dozen  yards 
beyond,  as  real  as  Trotter  himself. 

Her  fair  face  was  turned  toward  him,  and  us, 
very  white,  very  wonderful  in  the  moonlight. 
We  all  saw  her  clearly.  It  was  just  before  the 
fence  where  she  fell.  I  tried  to  call,  but  my 
throat  felt  dry  and  withered  and  gave  forth  no 
sound. 

The  next  instant  it  was  inky  black  and  the 
moon  entirely  gone. 

I  felt  Mrs.  Norman's  head  on  my  shoulder, 
fainting.  Norman  was  hauling  at  the  lines  and 
165 


Hoof  Beats 

shouting,  endeavoring  to  check  our  speed,  for  the 
cart  rolled  threateningly.     At  last  he  succeeded. 

Simultaneously — we  heard  it  like  the  crack  of 
a  rifle  at  midnight — the  splintering  of  the  stiff 
plank  fence  as  Trotter's  black  mare  struck  it  with 
her  knees,  and  then  the  ensuing  thud  of  her 
quarters  on  the  ground  as  she  spun  over  in  the  air. 

I  leaped  out  of  the  cart,  climbed  the  fence 
which  paralleled  the  road,  and  falling  and  stumb- 
ling groped  my  way  across  the  rough  plow.  Be- 
hind me  I  could  hear  the  others  following,  calling 
to  me  and  keeping  close  to  the  edge  of  the  field. 

The  moon  shot  out,  shining  brightly.  Almost 
at  my  feet  lay  Trotter.  The  spot  where  Alice 
had  fallen. 

The  mare  was  gone.  He  was  stretched  on  his 
back,  arms  and  legs  outspread.  He  recognized 
me  and  smiled.     I  knelt  down. 

**Not  badly  hurt,  old  chap?"  I  whispered. 
His  lips  moved.     I  bent  nearer. 

"Good-by, "  he  said. 

"No,  no,  Jim,  you're  not  badly  hurt,"  I  choked. 
"It's  not  the  first  time  you've  been  nearly  rolled 
out,  you  know." 

He  managed  to  move  his  head  a  little  and 
smiled — a  beautiful  smile. 

"You  don't  understand."     I  could  barely  hear 
him.     "I'm  through  with  this — Alice  and  I — " 
166 


''Those  Who  Ride  Straight 

That  was  the  last.  His  was  the  happiest  face 
I  ever  saw. 

We  got  him  to  the  cart  and  I  drove  him  home, 
while  the  others  walked  beside. 

Few  natives  will  pass  the  Archer  Farms  at 
night.  As  for  us  three,  we  seem  to  have  had  a 
glimpse  into  something  quite  beyond  us.  Still 
I  do  not  doubt,  nor  do  Norman  and  his  wife. 
There  is  no  horror  about  it  now  at  all.  We  know 
that  they  are  happy. 

Every  now  and  then  Norman  and  his  wife  and 
I  ride  or  drive  past  the  Archer  Farms,  but  never 
without  an  odd,  indescribable  sensation. 

Once  it  was  late  at  night,  exactly  such  a  night 
as  that  other,  the  moon  dipping  in  and  out,  casting 
uncouth,  shadowy  figures  across  the  light,  mottled 
road.  Mrs.  Norman  trembled  a  little,  I  remember, 
and  Norman  whistled  unconcernedly — that  is 
pretended  to.  As  we  reached  the  plow  and  the 
stout  plank  fence,  the  moon  disappeared  and  left 
it  dark.  Our  horse  shied  abruptly  and  stopped 
stock-still.  There  was  a  sharp,  sudden  blow  of 
wind,  and  the  willows  at  the  sides  of  the  road 
swayed  and  rustled,  bending  grimly  toward  us. 

Then  it  came. 

-T-a-1-l-y— O!" 

167 


Hoof  Beats 

Gently  and  as  clear  as  the  murmur  of  a  moun- 
tain stream. 

"T-a-1-l-y — O!"  this  time  farther  off,  and  in 
another  tone,  deep  and  long-drawn. 

I  could  hear  Norman  grinding  his  teeth  in 
some  kind  of  mad  excitement.  Suddenly  he 
sprang  up  in  the  cart  and  swung  the  whip  over 
his  head. 

*'Tally-0!"  he  shouted.  The  whip  fell  hissing 
across  our  horse's  quarters  and  we  raced  down 
the  road  swaying  wildly. 

The  moon  did  not  reappear  and  the  fields  at 
the  side  of  the  road  were  in  pitchy  darkness.  But 
we  could  hear.  There  was  the  faint  interming- 
ling patter-pat,  patter-pat  of  two  galloping 
horses. 

"Gone  away!"  I  cried  huskily,  and  Mrs.  Nor- 
man tried  to  call. 

At  Norman's  gate  we  pulled  up  and  went  in. 
Lightly  down  the  wind  came  a  bright  laugh  we 
knew  so  well  and  a  long-drawn  view  halloa. 

"They're  huntin',  huntin'  still,"  cried  Norman, 
"and  happy.  You  see  there's  nothing  to  be 
afraid  of,  for  those  who  ride  straight  like  Alice  and 
Jim." 

Mrs.  Norman  was  weeping  softly,  her  head  upon 
her  husband's  shoulder.     He  put  his  arm  about 
her  roughly  and  held  her  close. 
168 


'*  Those  Who  Ride  Straighr 

"Why,  Ruth,  you  ought  to  be  laughing  instead. 
Don't  you  understand?" 

But  I  doubt  if  any  of  us  three  understood  ex- 
actly, for  as  Norman  often  said  when  we  talked 
it  over,  as  we  have  again  and  again : 

"It's  too  big  to  understand,  but  we  do  realize 
this — we've  seen  more  than  our  share,  and  we 
know  that  for  the  right  ones  the  huntin'  still  goes 
on." 


169 


Vltetwter  Family  Libiary  or  Veiennary         __ 

Oummings  School  of  Veterinary  M&didmtft 

Tufts  University 

200  Westboro  Road 

North  Grafton  MA  01S3S 


